


Another Night

by NeonDaisies



Series: Relationship Negotiation 101 [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Community: daredevilkink, F/M, If you're looking for skin deprivation then look no more, Slow burn fic, also we're edging into consensual sensory deprivation, there's probably going to be kissing and sex at some point
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:22:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 49,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonDaisies/pseuds/NeonDaisies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s not sure he’ll believe her this time either; his face is clear of any emotion, of any hint of how he’s processing any of this. So what can she equate it to? Or rather, should she draw her parallels directly or circumspectly? </p><p>“I’m not sure you know what ‘safe’ actually means,” Matt says dryly as he removes his hand and scoots away. He goes so far as to actually seat himself on the coffee table. Though, with his forearms braced on his knees and his eyes focused somewhere in the vicinity of her sternum, he’s clearly still strongly focused on whatever her body is saying underneath her words.</p><p> </p><p>A work of cuddle-porn heavily laced with discussions about trust, honesty, safety and what else besides sex constitutes intimacy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I blame all of this on the dreamwidth daredevilkink community.
> 
> See original thread here: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1742.html?thread=3782862#cmt3782862
> 
> Original prompt: Matt in noise-cancelling headphones, slowly melting into his partner and feeling so helpless, but so safe, and he can't remember ever feeling those things together. His partner checking in with signals mouthed against his forehead and tapped into the palm of his hand. Sexual or otherwise, I'd really like this to be more cute than angsty.
> 
> Don't mind if partner is male or female or other or n/a, but I feel like it would have to be someone capable of defending both of them for Matt to be able to let go, or there would have to be extensive preliminary checking and rechecking of the place's security beforehand. By Matt, who may or may not get himself quite worked up with nerves. Or both. Or anything, really.

Another night, another set of scars in the making.

“Please don’t grind your teeth like that. We agreed it wasn’t that bad this time.”

Claire exhales forcefully, and glares up at her patient from under her brows. Her hands still and she deliberately grates her teeth together for the vindictive pleasure of watching Matt’s nose wrinkle in distaste.

“Were you thrown through the glass, or could you just not find a door?” she asks as she finishes up her hunt for any stray shards of glass that might have been embedded below the skin. The tips of her gloves and of her forceps are bloody. In the dish at her elbow there’s a small pile of red-tinged glass.

Matt, curse him, is relaxed into the wooden, straight-backed chair as if it’s made of puppy cuddles and sunshine. The inside of his knee shifts against the outside of hers as Claire starts in with a last application of Betadine and cotton gauze. It hurts; he can’t hide the way his skin flinches and shudders, but it doesn’t show on his face. He looks far too content for a man who looks like he lost a fight with a bunch of kittens.

“Told you. The other guy fell through the glass. He just didn’t let go of me first.” Matt grunts as she slaps a surgical dressing against the deepest cut on his side. “Claire –”

“I need more Steri-Stips. Hold that and stay put.” She waits for him to take over – he seems far more interested in running his fingertips along the bones in her hand, but finally he’s holding the dressing in place so she can get up and raid the collection of Johnson & Johnson and 3M boxes hiding behind her clean towels. By the time she returns, he’s frowning and not nearly so at ease anymore.

“You’re angry.” It’s…statement of fact. What he believes is fact. “I thought… We talked about this.”

“I’m not.” She isn’t. But this thing – this _them_ – is still so new that she doesn’t know how to say what’s bothering her without…

“Claire, if you’ve changed your mind –”

 _Ugh!_ She throws up her hands and glances around her apartment as if a sympathetic soul might appear out of thin air to commiserate with her.

“That’s a no then.” Some of the tension has left his body when she looks back, but there’s a sadness in his face that’s too familiar. She thinks of it as his lonely martyr face and she hates it.

“Just…sit still and let me fix you.”

He was right. Tonight’s injuries aren’t nearly as bad as they’ve been in the past. Patching him up takes a generous application of Steri-Strips, but no stitches. Even the bruise on his hip that’s peeking over the top of his compression leggings probably only needs some ibuprofen and an ice pack. She could send him home now with a clear conscience if it weren’t for…

Her hands are well trained. Finished with their bandaging, they’ve taken to running over the adhesive strips keeping the pad on that serious cut in place. Over and over, tracing the curve of his ribs. Matt’s breathing in time with her fingers; one large hand is wrapped around her arm above the elbow and both his knees now bracket one of hers. It’s been like this from the start, ever since he was a bleeding stranger on her couch instead of…this.

She stills her hand and his body falls away – legs sprawl open, hand drops, face turns up towards the ceiling. He’s steeling himself to move, to put armor back on and head home by whatever shadows the false dawn has left him.

 _No. Stay._ They have been slow. Cautious. She agreed to…this…but with stipulations. Time alone in her apartment has been reserved for medical aid. Any other time alone has been relegated to coffee shops and lunchtime strolls through the park. Any intimacy in their relationship has been emotional. She’s met Foggy in a social setting, had lattes with Matt and Father Lanthom. She’s shown Matt the scar on her knee from a teenage skateboarding mishap and the slick skin of a curling iron burn behind her right ear. She asked for – and received – a foundation to build a relationship with Matt (rather than her erstwhile Mike).

But now? _Stay. Please stay._ “I –”

Her words catch in her throat. The unintentional hesitation gains her Matt’s full, undivided focus. And she can’t help it; Claire reaches out and brushes her fingers over his unshaven jaw and finds herself transfixed – as always – at the way he leans into her slightest touch.

“Matt?”

“Mmhh?”

“I don’t like being one of the people hurting you.”

To his credit, Matt doesn’t reject the way she feels. Not right away, at least. But the way he wets his lips and tilts his chin towards his chest tells her he’s considering what his opening argument should be.

“You know it’s not as simple as that, Claire. You’re not…you’ve never been responsible for any of the pain I’ve felt. You do everything I’ll let you to make the pain go away. You can’t take the blame for –”

“When was the last time I touched you and it didn’t hurt?”

“Honestly? If you’re touching me I don’t notice anything but you.”

Despite the seriousness of her mood, Claire can’t help the smile that makes her lips twitch. “Smooth, Murdock. Real smooth. Did they teach you about evasive answers at that fancy lawyer school of yours?”

“Mmm…I plead the fifth.” He presses a stubble rough kiss into the palm still cupped to his jaw, then stands. “I should go.”

Claire catches his wrist, secretly (but then, Matt’s a freak, so maybe not so secretly) thrilled by the way he allows her to use him as leverage to get to her own feet. A gentle tug pulls him even further from his armor and the nearby fire escape. “Or you could…stay?”

Her heart isn’t the only one beating faster. Under her fingers she can feel Matt’s pulse leap and quicken. She watches as he wets his lips (wants to do the same).

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” This time when she tugs, he comes right up into her personal space.

“It’s late.” His hand twists and suddenly his fingers are entangled with hers. The calluses on his knuckles are rough, the pads of his fingers impossibly soft.

“The sun is coming up,” she disagrees. This time she takes the step. Her shoulder slides against his uninjured side until she’s tucked under his arm. “It is stupidly early on a Sunday morning.”

“Mmm… You’ve been up all night. You should get some sleep.” He’s warm and so very gentle as he wraps his arms around her. And she is tired. Her body sags against his, head falling to his shoulder.

“Pot, meet kettle,” she murmurs. “I don’t trust you to get enough sleep if you go home.”

His nose nuzzles into her hair and his lips press against her temple. “You smell like the hospital.”

“I’ll shower,” she promises in a whisper.

They stand in silence for…years. She is tired, and he seems indecisive which is a trait she wouldn’t normally associate with him. “Did you know,” she murmurs, “that studies show that co-sleeping decreases levels of cortisol – which you’re probably usually swimming in – and increases levels of oxytocin. Oxytocin is not only responsible for promoting emotional bonding, but can have positive impacts on wound healing. We need to nap together for your health.”

She can feel Matt smiling against her skin. “Oh. Well. Who am I to argue with a medical professional?”

“Usually the first.”

“Fair enough. I suppose the defense rests then.”

Claire smiles and presses closer for a moment, then reluctantly pulls away. “You need an ice pack. And pajamas. Which you’ll find on the top shelf in my closet, right hand side. The pajamas, not the ice pack.”

He nods and slowly walks around her couch – he’s tired, not hesitant. When he’s halfway to her bedroom, she turns and retrieves a cold compress from her freezer and follows after.


	2. Chapter 2

Claire’s not the only one who smells like a hospital. The scent of Betadine on his skin is nearly overwhelming before it’s muffled by his long-sleeved tee. In fact, most of her apartment is saturated with the scent of antiseptics and professional grade cleaners. Even the bed linens. But the sheets also smell of the cocoa butter Claire must slather on her hands and feet, of something falsely and generically flowery that must be her shampoo – it’s all over her pillows, along with a trace of…lavender? – of sweat and spearmint toothpaste. Of all the things that together make up his scent profile for her.

The bed is closer to the floor than his. He sits gingerly, listening to the stretch of stiffening muscles and the muted groan of bed springs. He tries to gauge the likely age of her mattress while he runs his fingertips over the bedspread. The mattress is newer – much newer – than the cotton under his hands (worn, thin, the fibers breaking down under wash after wash). A slight chill comes from his right – the cold compress she’d tossed onto the bed before partially closing the bathroom door behind her.

He lies back, muffling a grunt as foam and springs accept his weight. To determine whether Claire prefers one side of the bed to the other, he rolls to the left and then back to the right; apparently she prefers the center. So Matt rolls onto his right, facing in towards the bed and keeping his weight off his scratches (the tape pulls at his skin, and it’s worse when pressure is added). He holds the cold compress to his hip with one hand and bunches a pillow under his head with another. The accumulated scent of _Claire_ makes up for the springs he can feel moving under him every time he breathes.

Clothes hit the floor in the bathroom. (Was leaving the door partially open habit, or reassurance, or tease? Hopefully not a tease. He’s too tired to follow through on anything.) Bigger articles – shirts, pants. Two different sounds of running water – sink and shower (one diffused, one condensed; one falling a different distance than the other; water squealing as if forced through a tight space…calcium buildup in her showerhead? _Too much._ ).

He presses his face into the pillow, breathes deep, trying to overrule one sense with another. In the bathroom he can hear the rhythmic rasp of teeth being brushed overlaying the sound of water. Claire, of course, brushes for the recommended three minutes, then mercifully turns off the sink. He’ll have to tease her about water conservation…

There’s a small hum of relief before the sound of smaller pieces of clothing hitting the floor. The humidity in the room increases slowly as steam from the shower sneaks through the partially open door. He can hear Claire stepping under the water, the stream interrupted by her body…

Moaning softly, Matt forces himself to pay attention to things happening _outside_ of the (bathroom) apartment. There’s more to hear, other things he should be listening to. Example – the upstairs neighbor is grinding coffee. The guy in the apartment below is still snoring away but his mice (hamsters? Rats?) are awake and fighting over their exercise wheel. The pipes in the building are old, and Claire’s refrigerator is working too hard. There’s a clock with those numbers that flip over on the table behind him.

Outside there’s the usual city noises: light traffic at this early hour, pigeons, joggers, stray cats. He listens, tries to determine how much of what he’s hearing is routine and what’s out of the ordinary. He’s never heard her neighborhood while it’s waking up, just how it sounds at night. No one is likely to come looking for him this time, but that doesn’t mean much. The unfamiliar is enough to combat the security of Claire’s intangible presence.

The water shuts off. A towel flaps around. Steps approach the door, his heart rate suddenly climbing with each footfall.

“No peeking, mister. I forgot to grab my pj’s before.” The soft sound of open and closing – clothes hamper? – then the sigh of clothing being pulled on. “Comfortable?”

Claire, by virtue of the way she found him, is one of the few people he has never lied to. He’s not about to start now. “How did you know I was still awake?”

She doesn’t answer right away; probably deciding if she wants to play answer-my-question-and-I’ll-answer-yours.

“You were doing that thing with your head, when you’re listening to something you shouldn’t be able to hear. It’s cute. Like a cocker spaniel.”

No games. Just revenge. “Nice.” He edges towards her voice slightly; she smells like humidity and warmth and unscented soap.

“Hear anything interesting?”

“Your apartment is surrounded by feral cats.”

“Is that another attempt at getting me to move in with you?”

“Would it work if it was?” She moves around the room, seemingly at random.

“It’s a second rate attempt at best.”

“Must be the low levels of oxytocin. You’re falling down on the job.”

 “Mmm…” She comes to a stop behind him. Whatever she’d been gathering ends up on the bed. The cold compress shifts; long, slender fingers lift the waistband of his sweats.

“How’s it look?” he asks lazily as he reaches out to investigate the items on the bed. Rolled up socks, a jar, scent of lavender. Eye mask? He wonders how much time she spends sleeping during the day.

“The bruise or your ass?”

“You know, Nurse Temple, I’m beginning to question your professionalism. Next you’ll be telling me it’s not commonly accepted practice to ogle your patients in lieu of payment.”

“You’re fine.”

“My bruise or my ass?” He shivers as she replaces the cold pack and molds it into place with a press of her hand. “So you’re only interested in my body, is that it?”

The smile in her voice is…perfect. “As much as you’re only interested in mine.”

“This look-with-your-eyes-not-with-your-hands thing is unfairly benefiting you.” The bed shifts under her as she sits to his right. The sound of a plastic cap being unscrewed, the rich scent of cocoa butter… “Let me?”

The bed stops moving as she considers his request. “I don’t know. Are you a secret foot fetishist?”

“No. I swear the only feet I’m sexually attracted to are yours.”

“What a relief.”

Matt dutifully suppresses a groan as he levers himself up. The mattress isn’t particularly comfortable for him, but it’s hers and that counts for more than simple comfort.

He holds his hand out, waiting. Eventually Claire presses the jar into his palm, followed by the socks. “Put on more than you think you need. That’s what the socks are for.”

Nodding, he takes the cap off and tests the thickness of the lotion, rubbing it between his fingers and adjusting to the heavy scent. “Lean back,” he murmurs, pleased by the way the bed frame creaks almost immediately. Claire’s right foot comes to a rest on his knee.

They’re silent now. Bed frame and mattress groan almost constantly as Claire sinks lower and lower on the bed. Her foot is long, toes short, instep high. He’s careful, slow, taking time to listen for where she seems to prefer his fingers. She hums in contentment as he works the ball of her foot, relaxes as he rubs along the heel and Achilles’ tendon. Her heartbeat slows the longer his hands work.

“I could get used to this,” she murmurs as he slips the first sock on and picks up her left foot. “Coming home from a long shift, an only slightly bloodied vigilante waiting to give me a foot massage… American dream right there.”

“Shhh…” He grinds his knuckles up her instep and feels the shiver that rocks through her in response.

The clock ticks over, and ticks over, and over. Claire’s no longer holding her leg up, but has relaxed it fully into his care. He finishes, sadly, aware that her skin won’t absorb any more of the lotion. He puts the sock on her left foot, then reaches out carefully, intent on finding her hand without waking her –

“Yes. Please.” Claire’s voice is slurred, half asleep, but she must have been watching because her hand lands squarely in his.

“Thought you’d dozed off.”

“Almost,” she agrees. The hand not in his comes to a rest on his knee and she sighs.

The clock ticks over, and ticks over, and over. He changes hands. The clock ticks.

“Hey. Hey, that’s enough.” She twists her fingers through his and squeezes. “Sleep.”

“Blankets. I don’t want you getting cold.”

“S’what you’re here for.” But she shifts enough to wiggle under the covers. He wipes his hands on his sweats so that he can run a hand over her hair. Her hand fists into his shirt and doesn’t relax until he’s pressed against her, leaning into her side.

“Stay,” she murmurs, her hand running up his back and combing gently through his hair. “Stay.” She presses his head to her shoulder, sighs deeply, falls still.

Matt holds himself motionless until he’s certain she’s fallen asleep. Then he repositions, settling his head closer to her sternum, the better to listen to her heart (her lungs, her almost noiseless breaths).

The clock ticks over. And over. Over.

He closes his eyes when they get heavy, relaxes into Claire and tries to ignore the bedsprings. Claire is soft, warm and relaxed beside him. He can hear it every time she cycles up out of a deeper stage of sleep, tries to memorize the way her fingers expand and contract every time she surfaces; the way her cheek rubs against the top of his head. If he focuses, Claire is the center of his world. Not the ticking clock, not the scent of burnt coffee coming from two…three…apartments away –

Running footsteps from three floors up, getting louder until they race past Claire’s door. He pushes up, but Claire’s once relaxed arm tenses and holds him in place. “Shhh… Just the kid from 5C late for work again. It’s okay. Shh…” She enforces the command to rest with her fingers. They dig into the nape of his neck and Matt gasps, reflexively pressing into her.

“Oh… _god_ … Claire.” She’s mean about it now, digging her fingers into the knot of tension in his neck without letup. He tries to press back into the massage, but his muscles give out. He collapses on top of her with his full weight. Claire grunts, then laughs sleepily.

“Hey. I’ve got you.”

“Thought you were asleep,” he pants.

“Was. Mostly.” Another laugh is startled out of her as he groans pitifully. “Unlike you. Felt you tense up suddenly.”

“Claire.” Her fingers travel upwards, scratching at his scalp and pulling at his hair.

“Shhh… Relax. Take a deep breath.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Shhh… Relax. Take a deep breath.”

He does as he’s told, breathing deep every time she prompts him to. It’s…astonishing. One moment he was surging into action (apparently taking naps at her place isn’t the best idea), and the next he was a quivering mass of muscle crushing her into the bed.

She keeps her voice soft and the pressure from her fingers hard. He’s making sounds she’s never heard from him before – which is saying a lot considering some of the things she’s had to do for him. He almost sounds…pained? But also relieved. From the way he’s pressed up against her, Claire knows it’s not sexual, but pleasure is a complex thing and she supposes it can’t be ruled out entirely. But…

“Matt?” Even she can hear the alarm in her voice when she feels dampness soaking through her t-shirt. “Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?” She stops the massage and cups his face, feels tears. “Matt, talk to me.”

“Don’t stop.” He rolls his head, wiping his eyes against her shirt and pressing his forehead hard against her sternum. “That feels… Don’t stop.”

“Okay. Just…” She shifts and he moves with her, keeping his face hidden between her neck and shoulder. “There we go.” Claire takes a deep breath of her own, then gets back to it. Her left hand grips the back of his head firmly while her right hand slips down to his…mmm, C3 vertebra. Presses in _hard_. Feels Matt’s breath leave him in a rush.

“Yes, Claire. Thank you.”

“Any time.” She presses kisses down the side of his face, smiling weakly as she feels him return the favor against her neck. Or, return the favor as much as he can without moving.

The clock over Matt’s shoulder reads a quarter to nine. They’ve been lying here for nearly three and a half hours. Not bad. _Bet he didn’t sleep a wink._

She hums out a breath. As she works her way down his cervical vertebrae the hum turns into a half-remembered lullaby she last heard from her aunt. When she can’t remember what comes next, she starts over from the beginning. If the repetition bothers Matt, he makes no sign of it. In fact, Matt does very little except breathe and slowly pull her closer and closer to him.

She hits the C5 when the thigh he’s thrown over her hip tenses. “No. No, it’s fine.” She rolls with him, but doesn’t let go as he covers her body with his. “It’s okay, Matt. What is it?”

He doesn’t answer her for several seconds, head cocked and eyes open wide. Eventually he shakes his head, muscles relaxing into something a little less like galvanized steel. “Nothing. I thought I heard…” Matt shakes his head again and moves to sit up. “Sorry. I…that wasn’t necessary.”

Claire lets go, allows him to move around as he needs. “If that’s what keeps you coming back to be patched up, I guess I shouldn’t complain. What did you think you heard?”

“Nothing. Shouting. Early game on today apparently.”

“What kind of game?”

“No idea. The commentators are speaking French.”

Claire laughs softly and rubs her hands over her eyes. “Well. Was naptime as good for you as it was for me?” She’s watching for it, so she catches Matt’s there and gone again smile.

“You might be onto something with your joint nap idea.” He rolls his shoulders and lets his head hang back as if exploring the newly loosened muscles. “You should go back to sleep.”

She curls over on her side and rests her head against his hip, looking up at his face. He doesn’t look as tired as he did when he showed up at her fire escape, but she wouldn’t say he looks rested either. “I could do that. But you weren’t going to join me for round two, were you?”

“You’re not going to get much sleep if I stay. I think we’ve proved that.”

With Matt it’s often a matter of knowing where to push. He has excellent balance in all things (until he’s suffering from extreme blood loss); threaten to overbalance him and he’ll fight. So to speak. At the very least he’ll become evasive. Pressing him to stay is obviously a losing battle. Allowing him to come to terms with everything that’s happened in the last couple of hours will give him time to find his balance again.

And honestly, she’s just pulled a double shift and would gladly check back out for a few hours.

“Does that mean you’re volunteering your place for next time?”

He angles his face towards her, something…fond…in his expression. “Maybe I am. Your mattress is terrible.”

“Not all of us can feel the pea beneath the mattress, princess.”

The way Matt’s brow furls in confusion is adorable. “Movie reference?’

“Fairy tale.”

“Ah.” The look of confusion doesn’t go away. “Is that ‘pea’ as in, legume, or…?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He continues sitting where he is before he runs his hands over his face. “Do you have a gym bag I can borrow?”

“For the suit? Hell yes. Breakfast before you go?”

“What’s on offer?”

“Cheerios. With or without banana, depending on how ripe you like them.”

“Sounds great.”

Claire rolls out of bed with a small groan, her feet protesting at taking her weight again so soon. She roots around in the back of her closet for the larger of her two gym bags and throws it at Matt when she finds it. He catches it of course, and she leaves him to pack up while she hobbles into the kitchen and starts pulling out everything needed for a quick breakfast. They sit next to each other on the couch, Claire watching a morning news program on the public access channel. Matt, she suspects, spends most of the meal monitoring her because the moment she finishes, he takes her bowl away and pulls her to her feet.

“Back to bed.”

“Dishes.”

“I’ll do them. Bed.”

“Wait. You’re going to give me a foot massage _and_ do the dishes in one day?”

“The American dream, I know.” Matt tucks one knuckle under her chin and tilts her face up. “Thank you,” he whisper, the words brushing against her face just moments before his lips follow. Kiss number two is just as gentle and bliss inducing as kiss number one. Lasts longer though; it’s easier to hold on to him with them both standing than it’d been with them seated. The ease with which he handles her – and his restraint in doing so – kindles a small fire in her chest.

When they finally separate, Claire has to take almost a full moment to gather herself back together. “Someday you’re going to do that when I’m in a state to take you up on it, Murdock.”

“Promises, promises.” He pulls her back in for one last toe-curling kiss, then steps away. “Sweet dreams, Claire.”

_You too._ She rubs her hand over his heart before giving it a gentle pat. Tucked into her bed, the pillow he’d been using pulled tight to her chest, she can hear him moving quietly in her kitchen. She’s asleep before he turns the water off, and misses this, the first time he leaves by her front door.

+

Claire wakes up well rested, relaxed, out of food, and already thinking things through. She’s a practical girl though, so groceries rank higher than on her list of priorities than trying to puzzle through Matt’s psyche. She’s got the rest of the day for that.

Grocery shopping takes awhile. She comes home with a massive haul which needs to be prepped, pre-packaged, appropriately labeled, and put away. Then, once she’s settled down with a bowl of chicken salad and a fresh bag of pita chips, she pulls out her laptop and starts looking.

Her searches start simple and expand outward; just because she can’t get Matt into a hospital doesn’t mean she hasn’t seen Matt’s (symptoms?) traits in her ER patients. Touch starvation, hypervigilance, the effects of sleep deprivation and poor eating habits.

There’s a lot of information out there, most of which she doesn’t need; Claire can’t imagine what Matt’s reaction to a sensory deprivation tank would be, but it wouldn’t be anything good. So while the information she’s getting is helpful, none of it answers anything without context. Until she talks with Matt there’s no telling which of his reactions are purely…well, _Matt_ (super senses, too willing to take on any and all responsibilities, heroically selfless) and which are a possible reaction to long-term, sustained trauma. Though she imagines that the answers he _won’t_ give her can be chalked up to the latter.

And that means… Claire closes the laptop lid and stretches. Looks at the clock. There’s a yoga class starting in an hour at the place two blocks away. And it’s not like she needs to sit by her phone; both the benefit and the downside of this thing with Matt is that they’re both so damn independent. Things are good when they’re together (so good), but they both know how to be alone too. Are more likely to default to being alone than to reach out when they need help.

But yoga sounds really, really good and far more pleasant than doing a conversational samba with Matt.

She grins to herself, then goes to change. Matt will get a hold of her soon enough. Or she’ll do it for him.


	4. Chapter 4

Matt stays busy, because if he’s busy then he has _reasons_ for not talking to Claire. Not like the reasons he has for having never pursued this type of relationship before. Not like the reasons that involve instincts that keep him alive on the street but only trip him up in a domestic setting. At least Claire had seen…the Mask…first, before meeting the lawyer. Her expectations couldn’t have been high to start with.

She’s still Claire, though. When she sees an injury she probes it to find out how bad it is. And she’s not entirely wrong about the way she finds all his aches and pains.

But then again, his neck hasn’t felt this loose in…months.

“Hey there, Murdock. Working hard or hardly working?”

Matt sets his phone down hard and swivels his chair out from his desk. He gives Foggy his best innocent smile. “Hey, Fog.”

“Yeah, hey. So who is that you’re not calling?”

Matt pretends to look at his desk, then turns about to Foggy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t. How’s Claire?”

“How’s Brett? Unless you’re buying cigars for yourself now.”

“For the record, that’s still creepy.” The floorboards and the studs in the wall creak slightly as Foggy leans even more of his weight into the door frame. As if it were possible to plant himself any more firmly. His attitude says loud and clear that he’s settled in for what he sees as an amusing chat.

“Does that mean you got that interview with Mulcahy? We need her testimony to break this extortion case open.”

“Okay. I can play it cool. Yeah, we’ll be able to interview her at two, which leaves us enough time to talk about this call you don’t want to make.”

“That’s not happening.”

“Matty, Matty, Matty… What are the types of phone calls people put off? Calls to healthcare professionals? To overbearing mother-in-laws who only want to know when you’re going to give them grandchildren?” Under the sound of Foggy’s voice, Matt can hear the click of Karen’s heels coming down the hall outside as she returns from her lunch break. “To the girlfriend after a bad fight or disappointing sex?”

“Wow. I feel like this is a conversation I either needed to be here for the start of, or should have missed entirely.”

“Oh, hey Karen.” Foggy sounds way too pleased with himself. “Matt’s pretending that he’s not avoiding a phone call.”

“I don’t need to make a phone call. People play with their phones when they’re distracted. Right, Karen?”

“Uhh…” It takes Karen longer than usual to strip off her outerwear; the cold snap that’d rolled in the previous night has most of New York running for their winter gear. “Yeah. All the time.”

“Karen just shook her head.”

Matt turns back to his computer. “Just imagine what my life would be like if you guys weren’t on my team.”

“In your dreams, buddy.” Foggy pounds on the doorframe and turns to leave. “Also, not done with this conversation.”

“Focus on how to get Kate Mulcahy to work with us.”

“You know, I had some ideas about that,” Karen calls from the generously titled break room. “If you guys wanted to talk.”

Foggy’s footsteps move across the floor. “Great, should we meet in the conference room like actual adults, or did you want to pull up a piece of doorframe?”

“Do I get a vote, seeing as how the doorframe in question belongs to me?”

“Nope,” Foggy calls from his own office where he seems to be sorting through a tallish stack of papers. “However, the space heater’s on in the conference room, and since not all of us were trained in the art of stoicism by blind warrior monks –”

“Wait. What? Matt, were you trained by blind monks? Coffee?”

“Uhh…” Matt can smell the scent of the burned liquid from where he’s sitting just fine without putting some in a cup he can carry around with him. “I’m good. And Foggy’s getting confused again. While I hear that Sister Mary Therese had coke bottle glasses, she definitely wasn’t a blind monk.” Matt stands up from his desk. “Anyway. Mulcahy? Ideas?”

He leaves his phone behind and focuses on the job in front of him.

 

+

 

Foggy, showing an uncharacteristic amount of patience, waits until they’re walking back to the office from the precinct before he starts in again.

“So. You? Claire? That phone call you sent to voice mail that you haven’t checked?”

“Foggy…”

“Don’t ‘Foggy’ me, Murdock. We both know this is the longest you’ve managed to maintain a grown-up, adult relationship –”

“You’re one to talk.”

“I know. But I’m getting a glimmer of what it might be like to not suffer every time a hot woman is in the same room with you. And two heads are better than one. And since this relationship doesn’t require any dancing around the devil, so to speak –”

“The saying is to dance with the devil, not around him.”

“– and subtlety isn’t really my forte.”

“No kidding.”

They walk in silence for a couple blocks, his hand wrapped around Foggy’s elbow, his cane sweeping back and forth idly. It’s all as familiar as the cold, chill scent of the Hudson. It makes it spilling his guts a hard impulse to control.

“We didn’t fight,” he eventually admits, only slightly grudging.

“Okay. Thank you. Was that really so painful? And I assume the mother-in-law thing isn’t relevant yet, otherwise you’ve got a lot of ‘splaning to do. So…? Bad sex? Is there actually a downside to the bloodhound-slash-Superman thing?”

Matt laughs and really hopes that his cheeks were already flushed from the cold. “Yeah, neither of those have become relevant yet either.”

“Really? Because the two of you being in the same room is enough to… Wow. Well, I hate to point it out, but Nurse McBurner Phone is hot, and your sex life not being relevant to this conversation might _actually_ be relevant to this conversation.”

“We’re both cautious people. It just hasn’t…it hasn’t happened yet. That’s not the issue.”

“So you think there _is_ an issue?”

He thinks that the way he goes from lover to fighter in a blink of an eye is perhaps more than a simple issue. “She asks hard questions. It’s not the kind of thing you solve with a quick phone call over your lunch hour. Not that our lunch hours usually align.”

“Okay… Have you tried going the romance route, or do you just hope she shows mercy on you when you show up bleeding?”

“I don’t think –”

“That’s why you’ve got me, buddy. Trust me; rose petals, home-cooked meal, moderate amounts of wine and lavish amounts of chocolate. If nothing else, you’ll have a bottle of mid-grade booze on hand to make answering those questions easier.”

“You’re telling me that your great advice boils down to throwing every generically romantic idea at the problem and seeing what sticks?” Matt asks as they get to the corner and wait for the light to change.

“You’re the one who pointed out my track record isn’t much better than yours. Make enough mistakes and one of us is bound to learn something.”

Matt can’t help but start laughing. Foggy joins in and they stand on the corner laughing harder than the situation deserves until the crowd around them surges forward and they have to walk or risk getting trampled by New Yorkers all wearing an extra ten pounds of outerwear.

“Dude, it’s legit starting to snow. You need to return that phone call and convince her to go for a walk. This is totally wasted on me.”

“You know I hate the snow.”

“Yeah, why is that? I always figured you didn’t like walking into it, but is there more?”

Matt kind of shakes his head and shrugs. “It is pretty terrible to walk into. And it muffles everything.”

“So you’re telling me you have no plans for tonight if this keeps up? Call Claire, get an umbrella, and make her swoon with your romantic timing.”

“I’ll think about it. Can we get to the office first? We do still have work that needs to be done.”

“Kill joy.”


	5. Chapter 5

“God damnit! Every year. Every year without fail everyone looses their fricken’ minds just because there’s white stuff falling from the sky. Makes me wish I’d never left Florida.”

Claire hands over her latest completed chart to a viciously harried Connie and seizes the chance to breathe before another is shoved into her hands. “But then you’d still be living in _Florida_. I’ve heard enough stories about ‘Florida Man’ to know that those aren’t ERs to be jealous of.”

“I bet you won’t be saying that after wrapping your tenth sprain of the evening. Speaking of which…”

Claire accepts the new chart with a groan. “For the record, I’m pretty sure this is sprain some-number-way-past-ten. I’m going to be dreaming of one unending Ace bandage tonight.” She sighs and walks to the treatment room listed. She’s still looking at the chart as she sweeps the curtain aside. “Ms. Page, it looks as if Dr. Rohr confirmed you had a sprained ankle. Is that correct –”

“Heya, Claire! Fancy running into you here.”

Thrown a little, Claire pulls her attention up out of the file. The tiny space that contains her patient also contains a perky blond and a serious brunet.

“Matt and I are keeping Karen company,” Foggy says helpfully.

“I see.” Claire blinks a few times, trying to regain her mental footing. “Hi, I’m Claire Temple.” She introduces herself to a obviously curious Ms. (Karen) Page, before reaching back for a few pumps of hand sanitizer. “I, uh…I’m going to need that stool.”

Foggy jumps up and takes over the unoccupied corner while Claire pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and takes a quick look at the sprain in question. “You twisted this good, alright. Looks like the boys will be fending for themselves for a few days.”

“How do you know Matt and Foggy?” Karen asks while Claire breaks out a new box of elastic bandage.

“Oh. Umm…”

“Matt and Claire are pretending they’re not dating, but he’s introduced her to his priest, so it’s actually pretty serious.”

Claire opens her mouth, doesn’t say anything, looks at Foggy and then at Matt. “That’s not exactly how I would have described it,” she finally says. “Karen, let me just… Yes, like that, thank you.” Claire positions Karen’s foot on her thigh and starts winding the bandage around it. At the same time she tries to ignore Karen’s look of amusement, Foggy’s slightly concerned glances in Matt’s direction, and the way Matt seems to be listening himself into a catatonic state.

One patient at a time.

“How _would_ you have described it?” Karen asks gently, pulling Claire’s attention back up.

“Two professionals attempting to date around conflicting schedules?”

“What Foggy’s desperately trying not to say is he thought a stroll through the snow would be romantic. Or at least scenic.” Matt straightens suddenly, his hands tightening around the grip of his cane. “He wanted me to invite you to join us.”

Claire pauses as she starts fitting the clasps to Karen’s bandage. “You’re a lunatic,” she declares. “I should have you admitted right now as a threat to the public health.”

“Hey, Matt was totally going to do it before Karen slipped on the stairs,” Foggy says in his defense.

“I didn’t factor in snow before leaving the house today,” Karen adds.

Claire eyes the pumps tucked next to the gurney, one with a broken heel. “I’ve been hearing a lot of that today,” she says as she reaches back for the chart. Signing off in the correct boxes, she turns her attention to describing correct treatment for the sprain.

+

Treating a sprain really doesn’t take long. Claire gets through the care routine – keep it wrapped, keep it elevated, keep it iced – quickly without trying to feel…left out? Third (fourth) wheel-ish? Intrusive? Tired. Probably tired and a little left out of Matt’s daylight life, to be honest. Which is silly. Their schedules really are at least half their issue when it comes to being together.

That and a giant helping of a very personal fear of being so…essential…to another person and vice versa. But maybe that’s just her.

“Thanks for all your help. And for putting up with Foggy,” Karen says as the man in questions lends an arm to help her down off the gurney.

“Well, he and Matt seem to be a package deal. And I am a nurse, so I’m pretty well equipped to deal with foot-in-mouth disease.” Claire fiddles with her chart and glances at Matt, who’s gathering up a truly astonishing amount of coats and scarves…but then the guys would have suit coats. Right.

She doesn’t know if she should – or how she should – say goodbye to him in front of his friends and in the middle of her place of employment. Is he okay with modest amounts of PDA, or does he keep that side of himself private despite the easy way he accepts helping hands from his friends? Either way, it’s probably safer to just, “Matt? Call you later?”

His smile is the gentle one she’s used to, even if his glasses do somewhat diminish its effect. (She suddenly realizes he’s probably as uncertain as she is about how to interact with each other in this strange grey area of personal/professional life.) “Absolutely. How much longer are you here for?”

She half laughs, half groans. “Who knows. Hopefully not too much longer. Most people with any sense will stay in tonight. The waiting room shouldn’t peak again until tomorrow morning.”

“What happens tomorrow morning?” Karen asks. Claire notices a sensible pair of sneakers has been produced from somewhere – probably from underneath all the coats.

“A bunch of out of shape New Yorkers all decide to start shoveling snow, and a bunch of kids start coming up with bad ideas for how to play in it.”

Matt shrugs into his own coat, shoulders rolling in a smooth movement that captures Claire’s attention. She almost forgets there’s still other people in the room with them. She could just watch him _move_ for days.

“When were you off?” Matt fiddles with his scarf before simply looping it around his neck.

“About forty-five minutes after the first wave of walking wounded came in. Can I?” She can’t help but step forward and brush her fingers against his scarf. And then can’t help but raise her eyebrows; but of course it’s cashmere, or something like it.

“Be my guest.”

She takes a breath, then raises both hands to pull the scarf free again. “Um, so before my uncle was a sheriff’s deputy, he did ten years as a patrol cop. And he always said this was one of the best ways to keep the wind from going straight down your collar.” As she talks, her hands slide, tug, loop, and adjust. Matt lifts his chin slightly and Claire manages not to lean forward to plant a quick kiss on it. The end result of her efforts are reminiscent of a square knot. “There. All done.” She doesn’t even realize he’d been holding on to her elbows until she drops her hands. Already that simple touch is so familiar.

“Thank you, Claire.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Claire!”

Where Matt’s voice had been bordering on intimate, Foggy and Karen’s startle her back to the wider world. She huffs under her breath and shakes her head.

“Miss you,” she murmurs, just loud enough for only Matt to hear her.

“Call me when you get off,” he responds before brushing a soft kiss against her cheek. “I’ll be home to hear it.”

“Good to know.” She pats him with her clip board, then steps aside. His shoulder brushes against hers as he follows after his friends. 

Claire stares blankly for a few seconds, wondering if she could get away with helping the blind man navigate the halls. But Matt doesn’t really need her help, and he’s with his friends. There are plenty of people waiting for treatment who can’t say the same so she starts cleaning up, making the bay ready for the next patient. A minute later she runs into Shirley on her way back to admitting.

“What are you still doing here, Temple?”

Claire gestures around them, assuming the brisk pace of doctors and patients is explanation enough.

“Yes, I see. However, everyone who isn’t scheduled to work tomorrow is now officially on call. Do me a favor and get out of here. I’m going to need you at top form if you end up on duty.”

“What about you?” Claire asks as she surrenders her clip board.

“Pascal’s on his way in. He can deal with thawing out the clubbers and doling out muscle relaxants to the out of shape Boomers. General stupidity is officially not my problem for twelve hours. Or at least it won’t be after you go _home_.”

Claire makes and “I surrender” gesture with her hands. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

+

Nice thing about working at hospital during bad weather is it’s usually easy to pick up a cab. Claire gives the driver her address then pulls her phone out of her purse. As she listens to the phone ring she stares out at the snow piling up against the backdrop of apartment buildings, bodegas, and newsstands.

“I admit. I thought you were going to argue harder about leaving.”

The abruptness of Matt’s teasing tone leaves her just about as startled as the words themselves. “No way you heard that,” she counters.

“It’s just like you to make sure the person you’re talking to is taken care of before you agree to take care of yourself. Just how early are they allowed to call you in tomorrow?”

“That’s…”

“Creepy?” he volunteers.

“I wasn’t going to lead with that, but yeah.”

“Not as creepy as you think. Foggy was more concerned with giving me romantic pointers than hurrying us out.”

“Mmm… Karen seems nice.”

Matt laughs softly. “That’s more or less what she said about you. She wanted me to know how pretty your smile is even when you’re clearly overworked. Then she wanted to know why she was telling me this now instead of a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh.” That’s…nice. Though it does make her suddenly wonder just what kind of mental image Matt has of her in his head, how detailed that “world on fire” is exactly. “You know, if I’d known all it took was the need to save your friends from boredom to get you into a hospital, I would have hired out some extremely incompetent hitmen months ago.” She’s rewarded when he laughs again. “Speaking of grievous personal injury, is snow the only thing you won’t risk?”

“Well, it’s not really a matter of risk,” Matt says before she interrupts him with an exaggerated sigh. “It’s not,” he repeats. “If I had to, I could probably navigate it well enough. But snow is a good insulator, so it also absorbs sound. It’s like dealing with an extreme head cold where you’re also soaking wet and shivering on top of not being able to hear anything. It…it presents more dangers than opportunities. I don’t really want to break my neck because I missed a buried patch of.”

“Is that risk assessment and self-preservation I hear?”

“You know, I did actually manage to stay alive long enough for you to find me in a dumpster.”

“Mmm… Just a minute, I’m here.”

“If ‘here’ is your place, you could ask the cabby to wait while you pack an overnight bag.”

“Oh. I…” _Yes. Y-to-the-hell-E-S._

“I know you’re tired, Claire. But my hot water tank is full, I can feed you, and I hear co-sleeping is good for reducing stress. Say you’ll come over.”

“Yeah. Okay.”


	6. Chapter 6

Matt doesn’t actually get nervous until he hears the key in the lock. He wipes his hands on the towel hanging out of his pocket and walks towards the door.

“Claire?” He doesn’t know whether to kick himself – they both know that he _knows_ who’s just let themselves into his apartment – or simply go with the normality of the question/greeting.

“Yeah. Just…” Rubber squeaks against rubber, and as he rounds the corner to his entryway the vibrant scents of Claire hit him anew. Everything he’s come to expect of her is overlaid by the bright tang of cold and snow. “Damn, my feet are cold,” she complains. “I forgot how many pairs of socks need to be worn with these things…” Her voice trails off slowly. Everything he hears says that she’s facing him, so – 

“What’s wrong? Did I spill something on my shirt?” He hears/feels her walk towards him, inadequately socked feet rasping against the floor.

“You look like you’re ready for a hot date,” she teases.

“And that’s…bad?”

“No. It’s…” He lets her reach out and slide his glasses off his face. “I hate when you wear these things around me. Anyway. Here you are all dressed up and now I feel like a shlub.”

“What are you wearing?”

“You can’t tell?”

“Not really. Lots of cotton, some polyester. Not exactly an informative answer.” He’d slipped a sweater on over what he’d been wearing at the office, not wanting to make things make things weird when she came over.

Claire’s fingers wrap around his wrists, lifting until his hands settle on her shoulders. _Oh._ Caught off guard, his fingertips start exploring before he really thinks to let them.

A hoodie, material damp around her neck and collarbone, but otherwise dry – she must have been wearing a coat over it. Claire holds her breath for the instant it takes for his hands to slide over her collarbone – buried under layers but still perceptible – and starts breathing slightly faster as his palms cup her ribcage. (He can feel as well as hear her heartbeat, feel her intercostal muscles work as she breathes. Wants to wrap himself around her to feel the rest, the droop of shoulders on each inhalation and the lengthening of her spine. She breathes like a dancer or a musician – choral or instrumental? – or an athlete.)

“Your hands are warm,” she murmurs. So’s she, now that she’s inside. 

His fingers find the hem of her sweatshirt much sooner than he’d expected, the cotton rolled back on itself, exposing a ring of wooly and pilled fabric from underneath. Lost in the body-warm textures of her, he forgets to respond. She has two shirts on under the hoodie; the layers rub and skim against each other differently than they would against her skin.

His hands hesitate as they move from the strength of ribcage to the vulnerability of waist and belly. His thumbs rub against the so-called floating ribs while his pinkies can feel the texture of cotton changing from smooth to ribbed. He’s assaulted by a sudden sense memory of tracing fingers over her back from the last time she’d been here in his safekeeping. Warm, satiny skin, so different than the hands subjected to so many washes and alcohol based sanitizers.

“Matt?”

How long have they been standing here? He opens his mouth to apologize, to invite her to make herself at home, when her lips nudge against his restlessly. Lost, his hands drop to her hips without registering the thick ridge of a denim waistband. They lock on as she presses forward, breath warm on his cheek and lips hotly demanding against his. When his back hits the wall, he doesn’t wonder how he suddenly has something to lean on, he just slumps back and pulls Claire closer, his legs spreading to give her space to lean into his body.

A moment before he’d been wondering why Claire considered herself underdressed; now he’s simultaneously grateful for and frustrated by the many layers. The part of him that revels in a freefall wants to dive into Claire and never resurface. The part of him that worries about the devil inherent to the Murdock boys keeps his hands from idly looking for bare flesh and simply allows Claire to take what she wants.

She kisses him like a woman eating an overripe fruit, all soft lips and caressing tongue. Not devouring, but savoring, and more intent on the returned pressure of his lips than in deepening the kiss. It is a lavish sort of restraint and she tastes like a woman who’s gone without sustenance for far too long.

They’re both breathing hard by the time Claire drags her lips from his. He tilts his head back, trying to get a breath of air that isn’t flavored, scented, and heated by the woman in his arms. It means that his groan is louder than strictly necessary when she scrapes her teeth over the point of his chin. “Jesus, Claire.” Her smile presses into his skin along with the sucking kisses she trails up his jaw. But when she nips his earlobe, he yelps and simply _acts_ , flipping them around and pinning her bodily to the wall with his thighs and the hard pressure of his chest. He steps away with almost the same motion, appalled at how quickly he’s once again turned from lover to aggressor, but it’s too late. Claire’s fingers twist around his and she raises their joint hands above her head. She is…she is…

“It’s okay,” she says breathlessly, reinforcing her words by rocking her body against his. “This is okay. It’s just you. I like you.”

Panting, with no idea how to respond, Matt lowers his head until he can rest his forehead against hers. Every single one of his senses are ablaze, contained by and focused on Claire. It’s too much. He shakes his head slowly, not because he doesn’t believe her (there’s not a single hint of deception in the body resting so openly under his), but because he doesn’t understand. How could she ever be okay with being vulnerable to the whims of the weapon he’s turned his body into?

Maybe she understands what he’s not saying. Maybe she just doesn’t want to argue. But she slowly releases her grip on his hands and lowers her arms to drape over his shoulders. He doesn’t move an inch – forearms pressed against the wall, forehead pressed to hers – no longer trying to escape her presence surrounding him but allowing it to put a leash on his reactions instead.

“You still smell like a hospital,” he growls when he’s once again capable of speech.

“Imagine that.” Claire shifts slightly, but it’s enough to have her pressing back into the wall rather than into him. “I could probably take care of that if I knew dinner would be waiting for me.”

“That was the original plan.”

“Mmm…” Her hands trail over his shoulders as he straightens and she follows suit. “You have to admit though. Improvisation has its benefits.”

“Perhaps.” He can feel Claire sigh, hear her head thunk against the wall. 

“You are damn stubborn, Murdock.”

“And you knew that going in. What does that say about you?”

“Safer not to speculate.” She gently pushes past him and retrieves her overnight bag. “See you in fifteen.”

+

Cooking dinner gives him something to focus on. Something other than, um, Claire, once against nearby and…

His next breath is laden with the scents of hot butter, cheese, basil, tomato. Dinner. Take care of Claire.

Speaking of, he hears the water turn off. Giving the sandwiches a flip, he turns around and starts pulling out plates and bowls. A few minutes later Claire emerges, smelling like…

“Did you use my shampoo?”

“And your soap. Had to use my own conditioner though. Grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup? You don’t have problems with soup?”

There’s more of himself in her scent than just his soap and shampoo. “About as many problems as I have with cold cereal. Are you wearing my robe?”

“Sure am. It’s cozy. And smells a lot like you.”

“So that’s a normal person type of thing too, then?”

“Yup. Totally a normal person thing. Along with needing to eat every couple of hours.”

It’s really no wonder he’s never done this relationship thing before. The ease with which she surprises him would be…unpleasant…if he doubted her motivations. “Point taken. Have a seat.”

They eat slowly, chatting about inconsequentials for the most part. It’s…relaxing is the wrong word. Easy. It’s easy to pretend this is what they are; two professionals with conflicting schedules, to borrow her own words.

The only hint of a disagreement creeps in when Claire insists on helping with the dishes. His opinion is that she’s worked enough for one day. Hers is that as the guy who often wakes her up in the middle of the night for emergency medical care, he doesn’t really have a leg to stand on. They compromise; Claire sits on the counter and dries.

He snags the towel from her when they’re done, drying his hands as he stands close enough to prevent her from getting down. Her heart rate is an even 72 BPM even after he sets the towel down and rests his hands on her knees.

“Soft,” he whispers, running his hands appreciatively over the fabric of her pajama pants.

“Glad you approve.”

His hands move down (would she stop him if they traveled up her thighs instead or would she let him touch where he pleases?) her legs, fingers tensing into her calves (she tenses back. Such lovely, strong muscles.) and sliding down to her ankles where – 

“Are you wearing my socks?”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, we're finally edging into the actual prompt material here (sensory deprivation of an aural variety). Only took me 10,000 words to get there.

He looks so…confused? Betrayed? Put out? Are socks not sexy even when you can’t see them? Claire doesn’t know to respond at first so when she starts giggling, she goes with it.

She giggles herself silly, until she’s leaning back against the cabinets. She’s so tired. But there’s things she wants to talk about, including opening an oblique conversation about how he tries to put as much space as possible between them whenever he exceeds whatever his personal limit for aggression is. (Does he think she doesn’t _know_ him? Has he forgotten the night they met?)

So she pulls herself together and asks, “I don’t suppose you were about to offer me dessert?” as she pushes her feet into the hands still cupping them.

“Foot rub, actually.” His hands squeeze her toes. “But I think I have a tin of hot chocolate somewhere.”

“Yes. Please.”

“To which?”

“Both.” She says it so matter-of-factly that he grins.

“You brought your lotion?”

“I came prepared.” She watches him freeze in place as he works through the implications of her answer. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows hard, eyes widen, tongue darts out to moisten his lips. _Gorgeous._ But Matt Murdock, master of self-control and denial that he is, just says, “Good,” and lifts her off the counter. (Does he do these kinds of things just to track her reactions, or is she the only one teasing here?)

“I’ll make the hot chocolate. Why don’t you go climb into bed?”

“Mmm…” Any other night and she’d take him up on that offer so fast he wouldn’t be able to hear past the sonic boom. But this is tonight, and after nearly a week of playing phone tag she will get what she wants.

Claire goes into the bedroom and does get things started. She grabs the bottle of lotion out of her bag and slips it into the pocket of the robe. She pulls out her eye mask and a small bottle of unscented massage oil. There’s a fair amount of snow blanketing the windows and muffling the light from the billboard outside, enough that she clicks on the small lamp on top of Matt’s dresser. Before leaving the room she turns down the covers. Then she goes out and turns on the lamp in the living area before making herself comfortable on the couch.

“You do realize that if anyone’s sleeping on the couch, it’s going to be me, right?” Matt joins her with the promised cup of hot chocolate. She wraps her hands around it as he sits down facing her.

“Wasn’t ready to sleep yet.” She takes a sip from her mug and has to suck some air in through her teeth when she finds it slightly too hot still. To keep him from saying anything about it she says, “You know, I’ve heard mentions of a record collection. What are my chances of hearing part of it?”

“Pretty good.” Matt stands back up and goes to the cabinet sitting against the wall that separates his entryway from the rest of the apartment. “Any requests?”

“Surprise me.” She shifts around where she is, taking a moment to both admire the way her pajama pants drape over the bend of her knee and the curve of Matt’s ass. Athletes always have such lovely muscle tone.

Matt reclaims his seat a few seconds after the music starts and loses no time pulling the sock off her right foot. She tosses him the bottle of lotion and is treated to his frown at the unexpected shape. The frown gets deeper when he pops the cap. “Did you already use up your other jar of lotion?” He asks the question as he squeezes a moderate amount of the Aveeno brand stuff into his hand.

“No.” She doesn’t elaborate. This is probably a good a place as any to start. But he’ll work through it on his own.

“Why the change?”

She shrugs, half her mind on the best way to answer his question and the other half on the music. “The cocoa butter is pretty heavily scented. I didn’t want to smell up your place. Is this Pink Martini?”

“Yeah.” He sounds significantly more distracted than she had. “It’s a bootlegged copy of an acoustic concert they played in… Is that why you used my shampoo and put on my robe?” His fingers finally start moving. The way Claire presses into it is purely reflexive.

“I put on your robe because I like the way you smell,” she sighs. “I used your shampoo because _you_ like the way it smells.” His frown grows deeper, forehead furrowing into such deep lines that she wants to lean forward and wipe them away with her hands. That she is placing his preferences above her own really shouldn’t disturb him so badly.

“You do remember that I work in a hospital, right? That I can find myself caring for an asthmatic or allergic person without notice? That when we met you tracked a man through my apartment building by his cologne?”

He doesn’t say anything. Just frowns and rubs her feet. But Claire can be patient.

The music is perfect, the tempo fast enough to keep her from lulling off, but still calming. As she waits she enjoys the taste of chocolate and the feeling of Matt’s strong hands.

“I don’t need you to make special accommodations for me.”

 _There we go._ She’d thought it might be something along those lines. “Of course you don’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t choose to. And I chose not to bring heavily scented items into your personal space.”

He sighs deep in his chest, mouth thinning out in irritation. “That completely misses my point –”

“So you don’t go out of your way to do nice things for me. Is that really what you’re saying? This is just…it’s part of showing someone that you care about them.” His fingers still as her words sink in. “Don’t get me wrong. You come back to my place and offer me a foot rub, and I’m breaking out the cocoa butter. But if I know that you use scent to map your surroundings – which I do – then doesn’t it make sense to bring neutrally scented things into your home until you tell me otherwise? And not a defensive ‘It’s fine.’ Which is what this, for the record. Just because I’m good with a needle and thread doesn’t mean I can’t look for other ways to take care of you.”

By the time she’s done he looks faintly amused. “I stand corrected. You’re free to use my shampoo whenever you want. But…” He seems to make an effort to aim his heavily lidded eyes in her direction, “bring the cocoa butter with you next time. It smells better on your skin.”

Claire’s breath catches and the warmth she feels has nothing to do with his hands. “Is that right?”

“Yeah. Covers up the smell of hospital better.”

 _Oh!_ She kicks out, but doesn’t come anywhere close to hitting him somewhere he’ll feel it. “I take it back. You’re a jerk and I’m never doing anything nice for you again.”

“You know I can tell when you’re lying.”

“Just you wait. I’m never offering to help you with the dishes again.”

“Yeah, that’s going to teach me.” He slides the sock back onto her foot and starts in on the other one. He’s silent for so long that Claire thinks the conversation is done for now. But as he slides the second sock back on he hesitates and says, “I’m serious, though, Claire. Don’t…I don’t want… Don’t let me…”

“Hey.” She sits up, setting the empty mug aside and laying her hand on the side of his face.

“I don’t want you to compromise who you are to make my life easier,” he finally gets out. His hand comes up and traps hers where it is, holding him close.

“Trust me, Matt. If you do something I don’t like, you’ll be the first to know. I’m not exactly shy about speaking my mind. Yeah?”

Something wistful crosses his features. “Yeah. I just don’t think you understand how much I depend on that.”

“Com’ere.” She leans back until she’s almost fully reclined on the couch. Matt does not. “I’m serious. Com’ere.”

Slowly, so slowly, Matt leans over her. His shoulders bunch as he braces one hand on the back of the couch and the other on the seat next to her waist. “Closer.”

“Claire…”

“Do you really think I haven’t noticed the way you like to touch me?” she asks frankly. “Your feet were bumping into mine all through dinner. So. Come. Here.”

“You are awfully demanding for a woman who’s reluctant to go to bed. Where this would be easier and more comfortable.”

“I have plans still. I don’t want us to get sidetracked.” She slides one hand into his hair and pulls on his shoulders with the other. “I can’t be the only one who’s tired, Matt,” she murmurs. “Aren’t you tired of fighting?”

“ _Christ_ , you play dirty.”

“Nah. Just for keeps.” She hums approvingly as his weight finally comes to a rest against her. He shifts around a bit until his ear rest comfortably over her heart. “What are you doing?”

“Listening.” His ribcage presses into her belly as he takes a slow, deep breath.

“When aren’t you? What are you listening to?”

“You.”

Claire chuckles tiredly. “I was under the impression that you could hear me pretty well from across the room. And possibly though walls. What else are you trying to hear?”

He shakes his head and shrugs as he tucks a hand under her shoulder.

“Okay.” Claire waits, combing her fingers through his hair and feels him relaxing. It happens faster than it had on Sunday – is that the change in location or just a general lack of pain? This isn’t a very scientific experiment she’s constructed. – though she can still feel lingering tension. They’ll get to that, but first she has a theory to test.

She starts by regulating her breathing, counting silently to herself as she inhales, holds, and exhales. (The snow might do more to facilitate this than just give Matt a reason to stay in. No part of New York is quiet, but the weather is definitely keeping people inside.) The press and retreat of Matt’s ribs falls in sync with hers. (Less ambient noise will have to make this easier. She hopes.)

He’s relaxing his body, but not his guard. As before, his head shifts minutely on her chest as he triangulates on sounds she is deaf to. At least, here in his own space, he isn’t reacting to any of it, not even to the window that slams open somewhere to the accompaniment of slurred – but cheerful – voices.

When she judges that he’s as relaxed as he’s going to get, Claire mentally girds her loins and covers the ear not pressed to her chest with her palm and presses.

He reacts predictably; namely, he tries to pull away.

“No. No, shhh…” Claire holds on to his body tighter, well aware that she doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of actually stopping him if he doesn’t want her to. “Keep listening to _me_ , Matt.” All she needs is for him to hesitate, to listen to her instead of to his first instincts. “Just keep listening to me. Focus here.” He’s no longer actively trying to get away, but any hint of his previous relaxation is gone. “Com’on. Lay back down. Just stay here with me.”

“What are you doing, Claire?” His voice is strangled – it makes her own chest tighten in sympathy – but Claire is determined to try this.

“We’ll talk about it, I promise. But for now, just breathe with me, okay? Please.” When he doesn’t respond she adds, “Trust me for just a little longer.”

“Yeah. Okay.” He takes several hard, shallow breaths. “Okay.” His body settles back into hers by increments.

“That’s it. Just like that. It’s just you and me, Matt. That’s so good.” Claire relaxes her own body, aware this won’t work, that focusing his senses completely on her will backfire spectacularly if her own body hasn’t bought into it. “You’re so good.”


	8. Chapter 8

Matt’s body does what it he tells it to only because that’s what he’s spent years training it to do. So he does not rip himself out of Claire’s arms (if she is reluctant to cause him pain, then he absolutely refuses to be the one to cause her any at all) (he knows he fails), and does his best to give her what she’s asking for.

Trust.

“I’ve got you. That’s it. Just keep breathing with me.” Her voice reaches his ears not through the air but through the medium of flesh and bone. “You’re so good for me, Matt. So strong. I love holding you, love how you fit yourself into me.” Is this how her voice sounds in her own ears? Deeper? Resonant?

Distracting himself doesn’t work. God, he hates having his hearing muffled. He can’t help the way his muscles start shaking with tension. “Claire –”

She shows no mercy, but wraps her legs around him as well as her arms. Trapping him. “Do you have any idea what your body does to me?” It won’t be doing anything if he keeps spiraling. “You’re so strong, Matt, and you give it all to me.” He can hear her teeth grit together and it’s almost too much – 

He hasn’t experienced sensory overload like this since…since… And it’s exactly as he remembers, nervous system burning itself out to compensate for the loss of sensory input. 

“Let me take it.” He’s no longer aware of how Claire’s voice reaches him. It’s as if she’s speaking directly into his head, and…

“Let me.” Her body falls completely passive beneath his; the only contact she maintains as her legs and arms fall away is the hand over his ear. He – as he does too often – reacts too swiftly for her to counter. Snarling, he pins one of her hands to the couch next to her head, and the other… Well, the other he seizes by the wrist and holds to his ear for her.

“Take this.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, twisted as it is by stress. But Claire is his touchstone, and she is asking this of him, and he is too lost in his own head to think rationally about any of it. She has no choice but to lead him out of this now because if he breaks out himself he will be not just aggressive, but ruthless. “Take it.”

He can feel every inch where her body touches his, can feel each layer of clothing and each voluntary and involuntary flex of muscle. She takes a deep breath and he can’t stop the growl that emerges or the tightening of his hands around her wrists – 

“I can feel your voice in my bones,” she confesses. “It rattles my chest. I can feel your heart racing through my body. Is this why you hold me so close? Is this why you try to surround yourself with me?” His skin still shivers with every unconscious movement of her body, but the serious tremors are dying away. “I watch you, see you struggling to hear me, sometimes. Too many other things demanding your attention.”

Yes, and her hand isn’t nearly enough to block them out. All it does is make them harder to identify and track. But god, she’s not wrong. If he were going to lose himself, it’d be in her.

Allowed to choose – allowed to know her motivations – Matt surrenders. He almost chokes on the first deep breath he tries to take, but it gets easier after that. A new round of tremors follows as the adrenaline flooding his system starts to subside, but Claire seems to able to recognize them for what they are and she keeps up a constant stream of gentle murmurs to combat them. Led by her voice, he’s able to start finding his balance again. Is able to focus on her original objective. His hand stretches out over hers and joins in the effort to close out the bits of the world that aren’t Claire.

 _Claire._ He can smell her own stress hormones coming off her now, but he can also smell the combined scent of slept in pajamas – hers – and the freshness of soap and aftershave – his – from the robe she’s wearing. Where their bodies are pressed together…he knows the boundaries are there, but they’re the same temperature everywhere they touch, and hotter along that seam than anywhere else. As if the space where they’re pressed together is the only space in which they actually exist. As if everything else is just a concept of Matt and Claire.

He can still hear all the things that aren’t Claire, just no longer with enough accuracy to anticipate anything.

“You’re doing really well, Matt. God, you’re practically boneless. Can you give me five more minutes? I don’t want to move yet. You feel so good.”

On and on, encouragement and need, praise and confessions. _Claire, Claire, Claire…_ Except he can feel himself losing his grip on the mindset he needs to sustain this, and the sudden spikes in hormones have left him with a growing headache.

It’s too much. _Too much, Claire._ “Enough,” he manages to get out after long seconds of trying and saying nothing. “Enough, Claire.”

There’s no resistance in her as he pulls their joined hands away.

“Okay,” she whispers, and despite the sudden bombardment of sounds that filter into his apartment from what seems like miles away, Claire still holds his attention.

“Holy…hell,” he says as he tries to process everything he’s hearing and everything that’s just happened. “You enjoy playing dangerous games, don’t you?”

She shifts uncomfortably under him, and Matt has to get up and move. His world spins as he gets upright – holy _shit_ – as if mirroring his internal turmoil. He doesn’t know if he wants to hold Claire down until she explains exactly what the hell that was, or if he wants to curl up at her feet and let her do it again. But better.

“What the hell, Claire?”

He has to credit _her_ sense of self-preservation; she doesn’t move an inch as she assesses his mental state. And while her heart may be pounding, she’s maintaining that deliberate rhythm of breathing. “I –”

“No. Don’t answer that. How would you like it if I dropped a pillowcase over your head in the middle of –” The stuttering of her heart and the sharp intake of her breath answer that question wordlessly. And if they hadn’t, the sudden scent of humid arousal on the air would have. “Oh.” She _blazes_ in a world suddenly devoid of anything else. “Really? That is not happening. Not tonight.”

“Another night, perhaps.” Her voice is the only thing about her that’s composed. Or it would be if it weren’t so husky. She clears her throat – twice – before, “Can I ask you just one question before we decide what happens next?” She must interpret his grunt as confirmation. “Was it too much?”

Matt stills his restless pacing and takes time to consider the question. Claire had gambled big tonight; there’s no way she could have been certain how he would respond, but he trusts her enough to know this wasn’t about poking the blind man with a stick to see what he’d do. She’d had reasons, ones important enough to risk it.

Claire doesn’t want to hurt him, ergo, Claire thought this would…give him something.

She’s curling in on herself. Self-comfort. Assuming she has no reason to expect anything from him.

“It wasn’t too much.”

There’s no response forthcoming, and suddenly Matt feels the need to sit. He circles back to the couch and sprawls across it. His toes are cold and Claire is warm, so he tucks them under her thigh. She lets out an unsteady sigh, but her hand drifts down to his ankles.

“Okay.” He doesn’t know if she’s speaking to him or to herself but he suspects the latter. “Okay. Do you want to talk about this now, or did you want to self-medicate on oxytocin?”

He’s too tired to talk about this, but he’s sure as hell no where near ready to fall asleep after her little gambit. “Which option offers fewer surprises?”

“I, uh… The last surprise I have is the bottle of unscented massage oil I left in the bedroom. I only hit three of your cervical vertebrae last weekend. Thought I might have a go at the rest.”

+

He balks at the towel she’s laid down over the sheet. Towels work just fine for their intended purpose, but even with fabric softener they are rough and coarse against his skin.

“What’s the towel for?” The air is chill against his back. In front of him the radiator turns the air warmer and slightly steamy. And to his right, at the foot of the bed, Claire waits calmly for him to finish undressing.

“I was told this stuff wouldn’t stain sheets, but I’m not sure if that includes silk ones.” She flips the lid of the bottle open and closed as she sits patiently. “And yes, I know, the stains wouldn’t bother you, but I was less certain how you might feel about sleeping in any residue. That undershirt is going to go, you’re aware of that, right?”

Matt strips off the shirt in question and drops it into his laundry hamper. She has a point, he has to admit, but he wishes she didn’t. “I suppose it’s ungentlemanly to ask you to sleep on any hypothetical spills.”

She doesn’t respond, not to his comment at least. But he can hear her heart thrum just a little faster as he unbuckles his belt. It makes him wonder briefly – with a bittersweet pang – just what she sees when she looks him. And, more importantly, what _she_ looks like when she looks at him.

As Matt strips off his trousers and hangs them up, she gets up and moves around. Her footsteps leave the room, pause briefly in the bathroom, and come back without the light flapping of loose fabric that would have meant she was still wearing his robe.

“Make yourself comfortable,” she urges as she slides the door shut behind her.

Matt sighs, well aware that he’d endure more than rough towels in order to feel her hands on him. He feels like he deserves it more when she’s peeling him out of his armor and wiping up his blood, but he’ll take what she’s offering. So he does as he’s told, stretching out on the bed and pillowing his head on his arms.

The bed shifts, mattress dipping and sheets pulling tight as Claire’s knees bracket his waist. She keeps her weight balanced on her knees rather than lowering her body to rest on his back. (Silky soft material brushes against the small of his back anyway.) He thinks about that – about it gradually becoming harder and harder to get enough air as her body makes it impossible to draw a full breath – and wonders if her decision is deliberate or happenstance. And if even matters.

The lid of the bottle flips open, the scent of something slightly warm and nutty – but pleasantly weak – filling his lungs as she slicks her palms. Then Claire’s wonderfully strong hands settle on his shoulders like a benediction and everything else he can sense starts to matter less and less.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s almost hypnotic, Claire thinks, the way gentle fingertips trail up and down her arm. She’d fallen asleep before Matt had finished his post-massage shower (she’d _known_ the oil was going to be an issue, but there you are), tucked in and last conscious thought being that yeah, his mattress is better than hers. She has vague memories of feeling another body next to her through the night, but she’s almost surprised to find that body still in bed with her; Matt has never struck her as a lazy-morning, coffee and newspaper in bed kind of guy.

Yet, here he is, chest pressed tight to her back, one leg bent into the back of hers and the other thrown over her thigh, face tucked into the sprawl of her hair across the pillow. She’s thinking about whether to lead with “good morning” or simply inarticulate sounds of pleasure when she dozes off.

 

+

 

That happens a few times; her gentle rise to semi-consciousness, the awareness of soft caresses and companionship, the dual feelings of safety and contentment that see her back to sleep. When she finally rouses enough for actual thought, she’s tucked into Matt’s side, head pillowed on his shoulder and knees pressing lightly into his side.

“You with me yet?” He sounds…glutted. As if just her presence is something he can soak up and store. As if they’ve spent the last…however many hours…having the kind of sex you brag to your best friend about.

“What time is it?”

The hand formerly cupping the back of her neck stops her from pulling off her sleep mask.

“Snow’s gone, so does it matter?” He drags her arm across his chest as if it’s a safety blanket, and then those roaming fingers start a meandering path back towards her shoulder. His other hand is…cupping her bottom, actually.

Feels nice.

Closing her eyes behind the mask, she rubs her cheek against his chest. “How do you know the snow’s gone?”

“Can’t you hear the rain?” His fingers delicately trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her ear; his thumb brushes along the grain of her undercut. She wants him to carefully and reverently turn her onto her back and follow the same path with his lips to the accompaniment of what really is rain on glass.

“Thought it might be your radiator.” She stretches (the hand cupping her rear flexes slightly before relaxing, but doesn’t move) and extends her legs so that she gets more contact with his body. The body she’d spent a good hour exploring the night before. Is he waiting for an invitation before returning the favor? They have not had anything even vaguely resembling a sex talk, just traded innuendo and a shared awareness of each other that implies very good things for their future. So maybe he’s being a gentleman or maybe he’s as demi as she is, but this is _very_ nice.

“Claire? What are you thinking about?” His voice rumbles in her ear and his hips shift under her arm; he probably has a fairly good idea of what she’s thinking about.

“What I’d like to have for breakfast.” Long, lazy kisses; the taste of sleep musk and heat on her tongue; his name on her lips. Her eyes are still covered and she finds herself trying to lead with her other senses. (What she succeeds in doing is making herself sad that she missed fresh-from-the-shower Matt Murdock.)

He tsks softly. “Before I satisfy your appetite,” he murmurs as he twists so that they’re pressed chest to chest, “I have a question.”

“Okay?” She shoves impatiently at the blankets until they’re mounded around their hips and her arm is free. Her fingers sweep down the length of his spine until they can tuck under the waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms. He responds beautifully, body arching into hers with the motion.

“Two questions, actually, about last night.” He takes a page out of her book and nips at her earlobe; however, she melts instead of pulling away, the faint dart of pain swallowed by a deeper throb of (trust, safety, surrender) satisfaction. It completely distracts her from what would probably be mild anxiety at the reminder that she’d none too politely taken him apart the night before. “Maybe three.”

“Yes.”

“How are you so good at this?”

Was that actually his question, she wonders muzzily. “You’re not so bad at it yourself,” she breathes. The hand not resting on his sacrum finds the pulse beating in his throat and rests there lightly. Maybe she can’t hear his heartbeat from a room away, but his skin is hot and velvety under her hand, his perma-stubble almost long enough to qualify for an actual beard. She turns her face up to rub her cheek against it, humming appreciatively as her nerve endings flare up at the light scratching.

“Thanks. No, that’s not…” He laughs weakly and catches her lips with his, stilling her search for stimulation. He holds her willing attention for…a dozen rapid heartbeats before pulling away. “The massage.” He pulls the hand at his throat away so that he can press kisses into her palm. “How are you so good at that?”

“Oh.” She sighs and then flops over onto her back, trying to clear enough space in her mind to come up with two thoughts that aren’t “Matt” and “more.” She’s semi-successful. “Outrageous amounts of schooling.”

He’s smiling at her, she can hear it. Trying to focus on rational conversation again, she tries to pull the mask off. Tries being the operative word. “It’ll be easier to focus on…not-your-body if I’m not wearing this,” she says as he pushes her hand aside again.

“You’re doing fine. How much is that? What’s the official quantity of outrageous?” His breath brushes over her cheek. It’s not toothpaste fresh, but not stale exactly. At some point during her extended doze, he must have gotten up and brushed his teeth.

What does he think of her morning breath? Is that an issue? What’s a bad smell and what’s a natural one? And where does that Venn diagram overlap?

“Claire?”

“Umm…” She thinks. “Am I including the two years I was in the Peace Corp, or just the accumulated accredited class time?” Is this something that matters? Matt’s clearly not classist – he fights for _Hell’s Kitchen_ with little more than his fists and hardheadedness. But he’s also clearly well educated. Even if it was nearly a decade of a narrower focus than she’s committed herself to.

The mask disappears. She blinks rapidly, looking around the room (grey and blooming shades of pink, no clock she can see) and up into Matt’s face. He looks…well, adoring. He looks like he wants to know her achievements, not her qualifications.

Reassured, she wets her lips and answers. “Okay. Accelerated BS at NYU, the two years in Guyana with the PC, then the EMT course that became the part time job that helped get me through the Master’s degree at NYU and the half of the 2 year nurse practitioner course I completed before I decided that sitting in an office wasn’t for me.”

He laughs weakly. “Oh god. Oh god. You’re…”

“Educated enough to be stitching you up without a physician’s oversight? Yeah.” She smiles to herself. “You do realize that I’m completely responsible and professional, right? And that I have a vested interest in keeping you breathing? By the way, you can thank the EMT training for the fact that I know how to correctly stab you in the chest so your lung won’t collapse. Doesn’t mean a hospital wouldn’t be the best place for you half the time.”

He’s suddenly over her rather than beside her. His hands cradle her head between them, thumbs tracing over her eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you than I am right now. Which brings me to question two. When do I get to return the favor?”

The question…well, honestly, it shouldn’t surprise her as much as it does. No, not surprise her – Matt is a tactile person, of course he wants to touch her. But she does feel a certain…hesitation?…which of course he picks up on immediately. But for once he doesn’t pull away. His brows furrow, and his lips purse slightly, and he holds her a little closer while his head cocks to the side. And he waits.

And she processes what she’s feeling.

It’s not shyness, exactly, or undue amounts of modesty. She’s seen too many bodies to ascribe to any sort of body shame. And her body serves her well, after all, has benefited from broad shoulders and strong thighs. Her body allows her to do the work she loves. (And honestly, in the last week her body has spent enough time in contact with Matt’s that he probably has a pretty good grasp of the broader strokes of her appearance.) But there’s a certain…apprehension, still. Matt has an approximation of sight, but he is not sighted.

“Is there something you’d like to ask me?” Matt finally prompts.

_If I needed to be picked up at the airport, how would you describe me so someone else could do it? How do you feel about being one half of a mixed-race relationship? What are your feelings on cellulite? Body hair?_ Awkward.

Instead she pulls him in for a light kiss, smiling as his palm cradles the side of her face. His nose nuzzles along her cheekbone as she turns her face into his neck and sighs. “Will you still respect me in the morning?” she asks softly, only half-joking.


	10. Chapter 10

_Really?_ Matt wonders about that. Wonders at the conversations people have when the relationship is meant to last. “Really?” He pulls back and presses nudging little kisses against her mouth. “Is that really a question I need to answer?”

“Maybe a little?”

She’s serious. Her heart rate sped up when he’d first asked the question, and it hasn’t settled for all that she seems relaxed and comfortable. And he wouldn’t have assumed that she was anything less than completely self-assured. Confident enough to challenge his belief at the status quo without flinching.

“Hmmm…” He rolls them over onto their sides, continues dotting small kisses over her face, neck, and shoulders. “What would it take to make me stop respecting Claire Temple…?”

“I’m serious, Matt.”

“So am I.”

She huffs out a small breath, annoyed perhaps but not upset. “Fine. Let me rephrase. You don’t know what I look like, so will you still be…attracted to me in the morning?”

Ouch. He’s not sure which is worse – that she thinks what she looks like matters when compared to who she is, or that he’s never going to see her the way she gets to see him.

Instead of answering, he strokes his thumb under her full bottom lip, traces the line of her brow and brushes against the fan of her eyelashes where they rest against her cheek. “You realize that what you look like…” _Hmm…_ That’s not quite right. Her forehead is high, her nose broad, chin square. “If you are happy with the way you look, then so am I. Claire’s body, as a concept, is nice.” He mouths along her exposed collarbone for emphasis, taking time to savor the slight tang of sweat, the subtle give against his tongue, her soft gasp. “But,” he continues as he hits loose cotton and half-heartedly noses it aside, “it’s Claire’s force of will, Claire’s bravery, Claire’s conviction – you know, who Claire _is_ – that attracts me. The packaging of Claire is nice. It’s warm, and soft. But you’re the one who takes me into account and tries to make it smell nice for _me._ You’re the one who’s honest and passionate and lets me hear and feel the things I do to you. So what does twenty pounds, give or take, matter? What does how tall you are, or the color of your eyes, long or short hair, light or dark skin… What does that matter? You are not your body, but you _are_ inside of it. And I need you too much to deny myself whatever you’re willing to share with me. You know that. Don’t you?”

Matt thinks he’s prepared for anything (although he’s willing to bet that “anything” probably means more talking), but he is absolutely _not_ prepared for Claire to roll out of bed. Before he has time to register the sudden chill of her absence, something hits him in the face. Rapidly cooling cotton, softly scented with…silk…and the tang of Claire…

“Are you flashing me right now?” He’s too dumbstruck to do more than crush Claire’s pajama top in his hands and ask silly questions. This was definitely not a response he’d been expecting.

“I’ll be right back.” He can hear something in Claire’s voice, but damned if he can identify it. “I’m going to brush my teeth real quick. Keep my spot warm.”

 _Uhhh…_ “Okay.”

 

+

 

He’s regained most of his coherency by the time Claire crawls back under the covers. (Close call though. She’d shed pajama pants on the way.) Every ounce of brain power not dedicated to maintaining his self control is utterly focused on the newly bared expanse of Claire lying next to him.

It’s enough to make his palms itch. (And certain other physiological responses not limited to making him break out in a light sweat.) The sound of rain on the roof and the slight hiss of the radiator are nothing more than white noise as she settles in, once again lying on her side with her face towards him. And he can’t… This is clearly an invitation and there is nothing that can make him turn it down. Even though he’d kind of like to know what exactly it was he said that so completely calmed her nerves.

He starts with familiar territory, just a little gunshy as he slides his hand over hers. It’s such a contradiction, his hands scarred by violence on the knuckles and hers rough and worn along the palms from healing. He props himself up – first on an elbow, then giving up and just sitting up entirely – the better to follow the line of her arm. Goosebumps bloom across her skin; his hand flattens, trading fingertips for a palm that can better transfer his heat into her.

“Do you really not have a preference for a side of the bed, or are you subconsciously putting yourself between me and the door?”

His answer is a low grunt; why fight to find the right words when she’s already assumed something close to the correct answer? (Anything or anyone that might hurt her will have to deal with him first.) And it is so much more important to stay quiet as he gently manipulates her arm at the shoulder, listening hard for the sounds but not sounds of bones and muscles and cartilage working together to rotate the ball of her ulna in the socket. She lets him repeat the experiment at the elbow. And the wrist. And each knuckle of each finger in her left hand. And to push her over onto her back to repeat it all on her right arm (after making sure to securely tuck her under the covers first).

He wants to know not just every inch of her body, but every single sound that every motion of that body makes. And yes, Claire is not her body, but every sound is a history of how she uses it, and how someone uses a tool says so much about them. And he still wants to wrap himself around her. And he wonders if he asked her to, would she stand up and just breathe from her diaphragm so that he could experience her body working together in the most essential of ways?

Maybe later. The room is chilly and she is naked but for a pair of too-inadequate-for-the-weather panties.

He can’t hold back his sigh as he follows the natural progression of hand to arm to shoulder to neck. Claire moves with him so naturally, pushing up on her elbows and letting her head rest entirely in his open palm. He raises his right hand – intending to offer more support as he continues this intense exploration she’s allowed – but the moment his fingers brush against her throat, her moan shudders through the quiet.

Several things happen almost instantaneously; his left hand tightens in her hair while his right curls around as much of her neck as it can cover without constricting – claiming territory; Claire surges forward, both pressing into his hand and oddly, removing any immediate threat since he’s no longer supporting any of her weight; her hands grab him; his leg shifts. And so very abruptly, he’s practically seated in her lap with both hands wrapped around her neck and her hands holding him in place. Not that he’s going anywhere; he’s too afraid of sending them plummeting from this precipice they unexpectedly find themselves on.

He can feel – not hear – her breath, her heart, her tiny moans, her burning skin. (He can’t hear anything over the pounding of his own heart and the race of his own panting breath, actually.) And none of it makes sense. He’s still the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen, his hands are still weapons, he should not be aroused by (her trust, her acceptance, her insanity?) this. (His prick is not convinced that this is a very bad, very not-thought-out-at-all situation.)

“Claire?”

Whatever she hears in his voice makes her swallow hard (he does not mean to squeeze in response, he really doesn’t) and carefully straighten her posture so that she is no longer pressing forward. (She does not let him go, continues to hold him where she wants him as has become her habit.) “This is…” She squirms slightly and he freezes every muscle in his body to keep from grinding into her. “This wasn’t how I imagined broaching this topic, but it’s far safer to press here –” And suddenly her hands are at his neck, tracing along either side of his windpipe before pressing lightly in demonstration. “ – right over the carotid arteries without risking damage to the trachea.”

When she drops her hands, Matt does the same, suddenly aware of how…charged…the atmosphere has become. And while he wants, wants, wants, he also longs for the quiet heat of before. So he places his lips at her throat instead of his hands, and stays there. Not kissing, not sucking, just counting out one hundred beats of her heart. Then another hundred. Murmurs in approval as he can feel the desperation leaching out of her body.

He wants…soft. Gentle. Leisure.

When her legs start moving restlessly he takes that as a sign to begin again. He slides one hand behind her head, cradling it and holding it for his pleasure as he shifts his body off her. Claire’s wordless sound of protest is all the invitation he needs to press a kiss into that wide, generous mouth. He wants to (taste/hear/devour) experience every sound that mouth is capable of making, from the shuddery moan she lets loose as he starts pulling the blankets away to her squeak of surprise as he slides one his thighs high between hers.

And Claire…well, she’s a fast learner. He’s always been balanced on a tight wire above too much and not enough sensation, and she plays with it. She presses her nails to his collarbone and slowly drags them down his chest, hard enough not to tickle and light enough not to leave a mark. It makes his brain spark and fizz.

“Claire.” Her name is a gasped prayer on his lips.

“Com’on, Matty. Keep touching me.” He doesn’t know, truly, if it’s the intimacy of the nickname or the way she clenches her thighs around his leg before allowing them to fall open, but that’s it. He’s lost.

His head drops to her chest, his body falls to the side of hers (one thigh keeping her leg crooked and pinned) and he takes her at her word. (It’s a mystery why she trusts him so much, but not one he’s interested in solving. He needs her trust more than he needs…more.) (Though, since “more” and “trust” go hand in hand, perhaps it’s a moot point.)

She…helps…resting one hand on top of his and gliding their joint touch over her skin, tracing the slight arch of hip to waist; the vulnerable curve of belly between cushioned hips; the structured camber of rib leading to the fullness of one soft breast. Her heart beats hard enough to shake her body, the quick breaths from her open mouth brush against his cheek. They shift, almost simultaneously so that her head rests on his arm; if she were to turn her head just a little more he’d be able to feel each quicksilver expression of pleasure against his neck.

“Keep touching me. Please keep touching me.”

Yes. _Yes._

Her guiding hand falls away, allowing him to linger and explore as he pleases. The scent of her is a drug he breathes willingly, allowing her to fill every sense she cares to. He can hear the neighbors moving around and the traffic outside and sirens moving off in the distance, but none of it seems as real as Claire.

She only stops him once, when he can’t help but rock his prick against her in time to her soft sighs. And only then to ask, “Condom?” but he shakes his head and traces the shallow indent of her navel. No, he wants the sensitivity and distance of fingers, wants to break her apart from the outside.

His fingertips find the scratchy/lacy band of her panties, follow it around her body until he hits the bed. The race of her heart stutters when he hikes her thigh a little higher and pins it down again. He follows the long line of muscle along the inside of her thigh, inching higher every time her breath catches. And then…well, he’s teased them both long enough.


	11. Chapter 11

With barely enough pressure for her to feel, Matt traces his thumb over her panties starting from just above her pubic bone and ending… Well, ending far sooner than she’d like. She’s wet enough that all she feels is the gentle glide. And it’s maddening.

“More. Now.”

“Bossy.”

She laughs breathlessly, hitching up into his touch as best she can. Her left hand fists in the blankets; her right comes up to rest by her face – all the better to brace against the wall of his chest whenever she needs the leverage to squirm into his fingers. And he is…thorough. All delicate questing fingertips and…and…mmmm…slowly increasing pressure until the only reason he’s not inside her is he won’t move her panties out of the way.

“Oh! Shhhhiit…” If Matt had chest hair (and isn’t that a delicious thought?) her fingers would be curled in it now. Just like the way he has the first two fingers of his hand curled to either side of her clit. The indirect pressure is…

Mind blowing, she will decide later. Here, caught in the moment, her thoughts are rapidly disintegrating, brain overloading on estrogen and dopamine and the heated waves of testosterone rolling off Matt. And he must be able to read her body the way he reads Braille, because he does nothing to overwhelm her, just maintains the delicious rhythm of his fingers until she’s unconsciously rocking her hips into it.

He keeps her balanced there for…forever. Until she’s straining for more. Until he’s moving around her, and moving _her_ , until she’s cradled in his lap and there’s nothing between his fingers and her wetness.

“Touch you?” she slurs out, eyelids as heavy and hard to lift as her head from his shoulder. As heavy and useless as her hands, for that matter.

“No,” he rumbles.

“’Kay.” Her hands are caught between their bodies, palms turned towards him and she wiggles a little to get them free enough to wrap around him. In the process they both move enough that she’s able to get her knees braced against the mattress; he maintains his maddeningly gentle pressure as she starts rocking against his fingers.

 _Com’on, com’on, com’on, com’on…_ The chant rings in her head, reaches his ears faintly as she can’t help but whispering the demanding plea. But then the tip of one finger finally breeches her where she needs it, and Claire moans softly as she cants her hips down and in. Matt is all restrained power and concentrated need beneath her, aggressive heat and a welcome lack of motion. His other hand presses against the back of her head and she pushes forward until her face is tucked into his neck. It’s hot and damp and hard to breathe and Claire puzzles over this for a few moments while her body adjusts to the press of his finger buried inside her.

“See me?” she finally murmurs, unable to articulate past that.

He swallows hard and she can feel/hear it before he nods against the crown of her head.

That’s nice. Good. “Gonna move now.”

Matt starts panting softly and nods again.

“’Nother finger. Give me. Please?”

He does. And _ohhhhhh_ she writhes into the stretch, smiling and not particularly paying any attention to the sounds she makes as she rides his fingers. It feels good, good, good; the pressure building deep in her belly and behind her ribs is almost as grounding as the arm around her shoulders.

Time passes without any attention from Claire. But eventually her legs start to cramp and she can’t quite catch her breath. “Matt… Need…need…” Giving up on language, she reaches down and holds his hand where she needs it, so that she can grind forward into it. “Like…like this?” And she strokes the back of his hand with two of her fingers in a curling motion, squeaking a little as he mimics the motion inside of her.

It doesn’t take long after that. She can see the edge coming (is taking a perverse pleasure in dancing as close to it as she can), when Matt takes the decision out of her hands. At the same time he tilts her head back with a hand fisted in her hair, he slides his fingers out of her. There’s a moment where she feels a strange weightlessness – as if he’s honestly thrown her over a cliff – but then they plunge back inside, along with a third, and all she can do is hang to him and let him kiss her soft, helpless sounds of pleasure from her mouth as she comes.

 

+

 

The kisses keep coming even after the rest of her world falls still. Soft, sweet, open-mouthed kisses that makes her sigh and settle back into her body. Even so, it’s a relief when Matt presses her back down into the mattress, her bones glad from the reprieve from supporting her weight. He hovers over her (kissing, kissing, kissing) as she stretches, enjoying the lethargy of her own body, the bright awareness of it that still flares and flashes through her nerves and neurons. She takes one last moment to focus completely on herself before reaching out for Matt.

He is…sometimes his control awes her. As she draws him in for a proper kiss, his hands fist in the sheets beside her and he might as well be carved from stone for all that he holds himself so still. But his lips are soft and the _sounds_ he makes are open and needy. 

“You’re undoing all my hard work,” she teases when she pulls away; her hands hold him back so she can watch his face. His eyes are half closed, but dark (dark, dark, dark); his lips are red and swollen (and emphasized by his shallow pants for breath); his brow is furrowed, as if he’s having to split his attention. (“As if.” If she has part of it, then the greater portion is focused on himself.) “We just had you relaxed. Are you in pain? Is there something I could do to help you out?”

He half laughs, half groans. “If you don’t mind lending a hand.”

“Eh. You know what they say, idle hands are the devil’s playthings.” She grins as he gives her another pained laugh.

“You’re incorrigible, do you know that?” he asks breathlessly as she slides her hand down his chest. There’s things she’d like to try, places she’d like to touch and tease, but she also doesn’t want him to come in his pants and she doesn’t know how far she’s already pushed him. (Because they still haven’t had a discussion about this.)

“What was that? A five syllable word? We’re going to have to fix that. Will you stop hovering and just come here already?”

He shakes his head, rather desperately as she slides her hand around his hip for a quick (not that quick) grope of his ass. “I don’t…I don’t… Your skin is so soft.”

“It is,” she agrees. “What do you want, Matt?”

“You. Whatever you’ll give me.”

 _Five syllable words and still thick,_ she thinks to herself. But she’d known this would happen for them, that Matt would always choose her preferences over his own. “Have any lube?”

“I don’t need –”

She cuts him off with a quick kiss. “Technically, you won’t die without sex so you don’t ‘need’ any of this. So might as well do it right. Lube? Or should we just use that lotion you don’t like so we get rid of it faster?”

Oh…holy shit. For a moment Claire thinks she’s just pushed him over the edge. But Matt is nothing if not attached to his self restraint. He clenches his jaw so tightly she’s afraid _she_ might hear it, but he nods. Yes, the lotion. Of course. (She needs to remember that scent marking is totally a thing for him.)

It takes all of five seconds for her to slide out of bed, grab the bottle from her overnight bag (and the towel from the chair in the corner), and then insinuate herself back underneath him. It takes longer, actually, to guide him where she wants – his elbows resting just above her shoulders and knees spread around her hips. Then, with one hand she holds him still for a kiss, and the other slides from his thigh to where he’s hot, heavy, and (probably achingly) aroused.

He flinches at her light touch, lips breaking away from hers and arching reflexively. She doesn’t give him a chance to get far. In fact, Claire essentially tackles him to the bed, unable to keep from giggling. This is _nice_ , being so high off endorphins and the simple heat of skin on skin. And for once, perhaps so lost in his own hormonal haze to police his behavior, Matt doesn’t hesitate to react in kind. He quickly pins her back underneath his body and she moans in delight as he thrusts his erection against her belly.

Be nicer without his pants in the way. Not that she can do anything about that; he doesn’t even seem to realize she’s trying to free her hands from where he has them trapped near her face. (Mmm…she _longs_ for the day he trusts himself enough to completely overwhelm her physically.) (But the humor of this morning is good too.)

“Matt. Matt, your pants are in the way. I want to touch you.”

She thinks she hears him sigh. He certainly looks faintly amused as he lets her go and pulls back far enough to shuck his pajama bottoms. His expression swiftly turns to one of mild embarrassment as she plants her hands on his chest, keeping him far enough back to give her a nice glimpse of his cock.

“You’re not going to start describing my prick to me, are you?”

 _What?_ No. Claire looks up to see if he’s joking, but he merely looks…rueful. “Nooooo,” she breathes softly. “No one has actually tried to do that, have they?”

“Two different girls on two separate occasions.”

She starts giggling madly. “How…? _Why?_ ”

“I don’t know.” He presses as close as she’ll let him, arms sliding under her back to pillow her. “On both occasions I had had more to drink than they had and…it killed the mood pretty quickly. I don’t know why they thought visual descriptors were the right vocabulary to use.”

She laughs again, and reaches for the bottle of lotion. “Ohhh…to be twenty-one and stupid drunk… If it makes you feel better, the descriptors I was using were decidedly more sensory based. Lift up a little.” Her hand squirms between their bodies to wrap around him.

“Yeah?” Matt asks breathlessly as his hips make several shallow, hesitant thrusts into her fist. “Maybe a little. Can’t know for sure unless you tell me.” His fingers creep over her shoulders, the better to brace her as they both adjust to the way his body rocks into hers.

“Mmmm…. The list started somewhere around ‘Damn, that’s nice,’ and ended around ‘mouthwatering.’” Claire smiles and cards a hand through his hair when his head falls to her chest. “Com’on. You’re not going to hurt me.”

“Don’t want to rush.” His breath ghosts over her breast and she shivers agreeably.

Well then, that’s another matter entirely.

Claire has a new experience when it comes to admiring Matt’s physique. He’s damn pretty to look at, but feeling all those pretty muscles working together is something else entirely. The pace he sets is slow enough that she can feel entire muscle groups contracting and releasing as he rocks into her hand. Doesn’t stay that way for long though. At least not by her reckoning; it probably feels like years for him.

As his pace grows more demanding, she responds in kind, if for no other reason than to hear his soft exhalations every time she grips him a little harder as he withdraws. And oh, the way his hips snap forward when she rakes her nails over the nape of his neck.

“That’s it, Matty, let me take it. Com’on, Matt, I bet you’re so pretty when you come…” She doesn’t know _when_ she started talking to him, exactly, but she knows it works for him. Within minutes (moments) (hours) he’s arching over her as he breaks apart, mouth slack and eyes fluttering as she takes over and strokes him through his release. Her hand works him gently until he makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

She rolls slightly to the side just before his arms give out. His chest heaves as he comes down from his high, and Claire uses this moment of distraction to do a quick and sloppy clean-up with the towel from the night before. Then she settles back in to enjoy the afterglow as Matt reaches out and wraps her back in his arms.


	12. Chapter 12

Claire doesn’t seem inclined to move; it’s a mixed blessing. As long as she doesn’t move, as long as the heated and sultry scent of her remains in the air, as long as the silk of her skin soothes his own… Then he can just barely keep from worrying.

He knows (doesn’t think) that there’s anything _to_ worry about, and so he tries to focus on the body next to his. Brushes fingers over a tender inner elbow, slides his palm over hip, belly, and navel. Rubs his nose against the exposed nape of her neck. Presses dry kisses down the length of one shoulder blade. Listens hard to the calm and steady _thup-thub_ of her heart, and tries to breathe in time with her regular breaths.

He has wanted to be _here_ , in this moment, with Claire, for months. But he doesn’t understand how they managed to reach it.

“You’re thinking too hard back there,” she murmurs, pulling him from his contemplations.

“That’s a serious accusation. I could just be enjoying the afterglow.”

She shifts onto her back and sighs. Doesn’t say anything. Waits.

“I could be,” he restates.

“You could be,” she agrees. “Should I explain why I think you’re not?” Her body stretches under his hands, and she gives a long moan that turns into a squeak at the end before she settles back in. “Besides the fact that you’re frowning – which I didn’t know before I rolled over – you were working a little too hard to relax. Your breathing fell out of sync with mine, which is what happens as the body returns to homeostasis after an orgasm, but then you deliberately started breathing with me again. A human of your size and physical health should actually be breathing slower than I do, so you were probably trying to concentrate your focus on me rather than something else. A conclusion that is supported by the way your hands started wandering and you started scenting me.”

That is…sexy. And disturbing. And brilliant, and safe, and threatening all at the same time.

“You are terrifying,” he whispers against her collarbone.

She makes a sound, low and skeptical, as if she disagrees with his assessment. “What I am is ready for breakfast.” Her hands push him away gently as she sits up and reaches over him for her phone. “Make that brunch. It’s nearly eleven. Wow. I don’t remember the last time I slept for ten hours straight.”

“Or,” Matt counters as he tugs her back down – to the accompaniment of her surprised laughter – “we could stay in bed all day.” The sheets have nothing on her bare skin; he doesn’t _want_ to get up and dressed and lose access to it.

“We could,” she agrees, and he can hear the smile in her voice. “I can even think of at least one decent source of protein that’s, uh, close to hand. But what there _isn’t_ is a source of caffeine. And all wordplay aside, you don’t strike me as the kind of guy who eats in bed.”

He can’t help it. He has to reach out and touch her smile with his fingertips, prove that she is as content as she sounds, even if she does want to get out of bed.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

He shakes his head, uncertain of how to explain himself. He wonders how she knows him so well, why she trusts him so much, but ends up asking, “How are you so honest?”

Claire doesn’t answer right away. Her smile fades under his fingers, and her head cocks to the side as she considers (him) (her answer). “I’m not sure I understand the question.”

“You don’t… You don’t play games. You don’t try to hide _anything_. You are so… _open_ …about everything. You don’t even refuse to answer questions.”

“We’ll put aside for the moment the fact that you’re essentially a human lie detector, and that trying to lie to you while knowing that can only start to build up resentment eventually –”

“And you don’t think having to tell the truth every moment of every day isn’t going to do the same thing?”

She sighs again, longer and harder – as if he’s being deliberately obtuse – and pulls away from him. “Claire –” He starts to apologize but she makes an irritated sound.

“Just…let me get my thoughts in order. Okay?”

Matt waits, listening as Claire moves around the room (pacing), pulling on clothes with every back and forth circuit. Uncertain if she is upset (she isn’t trying to stare him down) or just trying to walk off her feelings, he sits up in bed, leaning against the headboard and attempting to be patient. Maybe he should have kept his mouth shut. There’s sayings about examining gifts too closely.

“Okay. I think I know how to say this.” Her weight settles at the foot of the bed; he can hear one bare foot scuffing back and forth against the floor before everything shifts again and the sound stops.

“First of all, I don’t play games because the point of any relationship is not to make the other person think you don’t need them as much as they need you. Secondly, _you’re_ the one who reaffirmed that _I am_ what I think and feel and do and believe. I don’t tell you the truth because I lack another option; I do it because _this is who I am_. Why would I want to be with someone who didn’t…want _me_? That’s what these last couple of months has been about. Or at least, for me, that’s what they’ve been about.” She sighs again, sharp and hard and with a hint of a growl underneath. “I’m not sure you realize how…deliberate…my use of the word pretty has been when it comes to my appreciation of your physical appearance. Because if you’re not the one inside it, that’s all it is for me. Aesthetically pleasing. I want…you. And if who we are is more important than how we appear, then honesty is the only way to facilitate intimacy.”

She pauses – for breath, to let him reply, to decide if she needs to say something further… He can’t guess why. Doesn’t feel a need to try to guess. He’s not stupid; there’s something she’s trying to define without using the word in the definition. And it turns out that the actual word doesn’t matter because he understands something of what she’s trying to get at.

Claire’s blind leap of faith happened months ago when she laid out the terms under which she could see…this…developing between them. For her, what they have now, is like walking down a sunlit street. This isn’t about trust for her anymore. It’s confidence.

And yet, her heart is pounding just a little too hard, as if she doubts whether he welcomes her honesty or not. He’s just not sure how to address what she’s said without…screwing everything up.

_Just return the favor, Murdock._

“Com’ere.” He slides down the bed until he’s half-reclined against the pillows, and pats the bed at his side in invitation. And Claire does, more gracefully than he ever does when she’s the one doing the asking. She leans against his raised knees and tucks cold feet into his armpit with an expressive wiggling of toes. He grumbles, but allows it, though he snakes his hand up the loose cuff of her of pajama bottoms in return. (Such soft, warm, _alive_ skin…)

He wishes they had a better word for this thing they’re doing; dating doesn’t really apply because people _date_ as they’re trying to get to know one another.

“Foggy thought our lack of a sex life might be causing issues.” He has to finish that sentence over her low – but amused – groan. “But that’s not the case. Is it.”

Her hand starts stroking up and down his thigh, the touch muted by layers of sheets and blankets. “Sex can be very nice,” she agrees. “But a lack of sex isn’t really a deal breaker, no. At least not for me.”

“But this morning was…good?”

“This morning was _perfect._ ” She leans forward so he does the same, and then her lips pull sweetly at his until her smile is too broad to sustain it. “It was…honest,” she decides as she settles back against his knees, her hand resuming its gentle sweep up and down. “Conversational sex, if you will. What about you? Any deal breakers?”

Loads. But all of them having to do with his fears of taking too much from her.

“I’ve never…” And he’s not sure how to admit it without sounding pathetic, but surely it’s something she’s already guessed. “I didn’t even tell my dad about how this all…changed…after the accident.” He waves a hand in front of his face, allowing Claire to intuit what he means about his enhanced senses. “The only person who knew is the guy who trained me how to control and use my –”

“ – Superpowers?”

He squeezes her calf in warning. “ – Abilities. I was a kid, so I thought that because we could do the same things, it made us the same. But…” He shrugs, not really wanting to get into anything concerning Stick, because, God willing, she was never going to know that the old man did anything but pass through his life years ago. “Since then… You are the only person I’ve never lied to about who I am. About any of it. I’ve never had to pretend to be…less…around you.”

“So what you’re saying is that this morning was good for you too.”

More like essential. Just because he doesn’t understand why she trusts him so much doesn’t mean he doesn’t need it.

“It was perfect.” He can feel everything about her relaxing (respiration, heart, muscles) as he repeats her words back to her.

“You haven’t answered the question about deal breakers.”

“Neither have you.” And yes, there’s clothing involved now, but feeling her relaxed body curled up against his is nearly as nice as skin on skin.

“Technically, I laid down my deal breakers months ago when we were talking about the possibility of all…this.”

True enough. “If you’re asking me if I believe that happy couples have sex two to three times a week…”

Claire snorts. “Unless you’re considering giving up your night job, that’s unlikely to happen.”

She’s got a point there, too. “I said it last night; don’t compromise who you are to make my life easier.”

“Even when you don’t understand?”

“I’d rather get the chance to understand.”

“Even when that means explaining something like this?” She leans in close; her palm (warm, soft, he can smell himself on his skin and can’t help but take a deep breath in through his mouth in an effort to focus on the conversation and not the memory of skin on skin) settles over his eyes. It doesn’t do anything _more_ to blind him, but it is…surprisingly vulnerable. “Or this?” The hand moves, two fingers pressing to either side of his trachea. “You want to understand that?” The question is whispered. Raw. Intense.

He doesn’t know if can answer around the lump in his throat, so he just nods. Yes. He wants to understand this especially.

“Okay.” She stays huddled in his personal space a few more seconds, then pulls away. “Okay. Food first though.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!! So much talking in this one! Good talking, but why do I torture myself with characters who ask hard questions and then answer those questions seriously? Longer chapter than usual. Didn't want to change POVs until I'd hit what felt like the natural conclusion.

Matt loses the coin toss. And by loses, Claire refuses to go out into the freezing rain after the coffee he should have had the foresight to purchase before inviting her over for the night. Matt protests weakly, unable to keep a smile off his face. So she sends him out into the cold with a warm kiss.

He returns faster than she can finish frying up the French toast. The cold follows him in; it’s her turn to protest weakly when he wraps himself around her from behind. But the closeness is nice – more than just nice – and every time Matt buries his face in her neck makes her just a little weaker in the knees.

He’s crouched awkwardly behind her to keep his head on her shoulder. But when she asks what he’s doing, he shrugs and murmurs against her neck, “Feeling you breathe.” He doesn’t move until she drags him behind her to the table.

 

+

 

Matt – God bless him – brought ground coffee back with him, so after breakfast there’s the prospect of more coffee to sweeten the coming conversation. Claire uses the time it takes to brew more to get dressed and consider what she’s going to say one last time. She thinks she knows how to start things off.

She leaves the bedroom, pulling Matt’s sweater from the night before over her head, and sees that not only has Matt brewed more coffee, but he’s brought the carafe into the living room with him.

“My hero,” she teases, coming to sit next to him on the couch.

“Clearly I’ve been going about things all wrong,” he jokes as she picks up her mug and makes herself comfortable. “Is this going to be a thing now?” His fingers pluck at the sleeve of the sweater she’s appropriated.

“Do you want it to be a thing?” Claire knows that _she’d_ like it to be a thing, especially given how often they go long stretches without seeing each other.

Matt leans in, presses a kiss to the underside of her jaw. “I don’t know. Am I going to have to keep buying new socks?” His nose trails up her jaw to her ear where he nuzzles in gently. “Any chance we can have this talk in bed?”

“Naked?” she asks, amused by his utter transparency.

“I wouldn’t argue against it.”

“How about I let you hold my hand instead?”

“Which one? You’ve got that coffee in a death grip.”

“Mmm… Sounds like you might be out of luck, then.”

“This hero gig pays worse than my day job.” She can feel Matt’s sigh stir her hair before he pulls away.

“Poor thing.” But maybe he has a point. Face to face, eye to eye… Just because it’s what she’s used to, how she’s accustomed to doing things, doesn’t mean it’s the right way to do them with _Matt._ It’s not the first, and probably won’t be the last that she has to remind herself that for all Matt can do, he’s still blind; eye contact is no measure of forthrightness in this circumstance. So she adjusts her tactics, follows Matt across the couch and tucks herself into his side. She doesn’t know if Matt needs a “closer look” at her while they talk, or just the simple security of physical proximity, but she can feel him relaxing. Knows she’s made a good decision when his arm snakes around her waist.

 

+

 

“I suppose the right place to start is with my freshman year at NYU.” Claire takes a sip out of her mug and settles more comfortably into the support of Matt’s chest. “My roommate was…more than a slob, but I can’t think of a better word for it. And possibly amped up on something more than just caffeine. Whereas I was…” She shrugs, rolls her head back to get a glimpse of Matt’s face. “Studious sounds good, but obsessive is probably closer to the truth. It was more than just needing to keep my grades up to keep my scholarships. It was –”

“Personal?” Matt suggests.

“Yeah.”

“I might know something about that.”

“Thought you might.” Claire shifts around enough so that she can just tilt her head back to see him. (It’s not as easy to dismiss her need to see his face while they talk as she thought it’d be.) “Anyway, I found as many other places to study as possible, but sooner or later I’d have to go back to my dorm room. So I had to find a way to study there too. Recording my lectures helped, and some of the textbooks had easy to access recordings – ADA stuff, you know. But sometimes just _seeing_ her side of the room was too much distraction. Especially when her boyfriend would come over and they started mackin’ on each other.”

A little smile plays over Matt’s lips. “But you weren’t going to let a little thing like that stop you.”

“No. I went out and bought a cheap sleep mask. It smelled like…really _cheap_ lavender. But used with a pair of headphones? No more problems concentrating.”

“Smart. Reduce the distractions. How did you keep from falling asleep?”

“Didn’t always. But I probably didn’t use caffeine pills responsibly during mid-terms and finals.”

“You’re in good company.”

“Mmm…figured.”

Matt’s fingers dig into the join of shoulder and neck, rubbing in tight circles. Claire stretches her neck out to give him more room to work. It amuses him, she can hear it in his voice when he asks, “So… This morning…?”

“You weren’t exactly an innocent bystander this morning,” Claire points out. “But yeah. Same basic principle. Shut out the distractions, focus on what’s important.” She wonders if he sees the parallel; if that sways anything when it comes to what he thinks of her little maneuvers of the night before. His expression doesn’t give much away while he thinks.

“Mmm…” Matt’s fingers keep working – they feel nice. Strong. Grounding. Helping her to keep calm while he thinks.

“But last night. When I mentioned dropping a pillowcase over your head. That was…?”

“Sexy? Yes. Probably not for the reason you’re thinking, though. I use blindfolds to achieve a goal. Occasionally that goal is to focus on my partner. But you know me. I value connection over sensation. The blindfold in itself isn’t sexy.”

“Then why the…strong reaction…to the pillowcase scenario?”

Claire tilts her head back and catches a glimpse of his frown. He knows why. Or suspects. Clearly doesn’t like what it implies. “You know why.” It’s trust. It’s always about trust. “Trust and honesty.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Not that she expected him to. “Claire…”

“Don’t patronize me, Matt. I know who you are. I’ve seen what you can do.” She sighs, takes another sip of coffee. “Maybe I can’t match you for brute strength, but that doesn’t make me weak.”

“I don’t think you’re weak.”

“Then what am I?” She doesn’t ask it as a challenge. She’s genuinely curious.

He takes so long to answer that Claire thinks he’s going to avoid this question, too. But he surprises her. Shifts on the couch until he can tuck his face into her hair. “Precious,” he murmurs. “You’re precious.”

“You’re such a jerk.” Claire sets her mug down and turns into Matt, wrapping her arms around his waist, tucking her shoulder under his arm and resting her head on his chest. “Here we are, having a Serious Discussion – capital letters included, by the way – and you get unspeakably sweet.” And, despite her razzing, Claire really is…touched doesn’t cover it, but they haven’t said any of the Big Words to each other yet (neither of them brave enough to go first), but this is pretty damn close.

Matt holds her, lets her bitch at him lightly for his sense of timing. Holds her a little closer when she runs out of steam and just nuzzles in. Already Matt smells like safety, and comfort, and home.

“I hate you,” she mumbles.

“I know when you’re lying.”

“Good.” Matt kisses the crown of her head and she smiles.

 

+

 

They get slightly distracted by more kissing. Matt’s fault, Claire will maintain. He doesn’t press, doesn’t use kissing as a intermediate step on the way to more explicit things. They haven’t done this enough yet for her to know if this is normal (as in Matt prefers physical intimacy over sexual intimacy), consideration (Matt reading her body language and keeping things where she seems the most comfortable), or just extended afterglow.

She looks forward to finding out.

But the closeness is luxurious – all warmth, and softness, the tips of their fingers playing over body-warm clothes and the occasional revelation of skin, and her focus narrowed down to the play of his lips on hers.

She feels precious; hopes he feels as cherished in return.

Gradually his fingers drift up to her throat – just as they had during that first kiss when she’d been too tired and hurt to respond. (She is neither right now.) He doesn’t press hard enough to constrict the flow of blood, to make her lightheaded and giddy, but her heart picks up all the same until the effect is similar.

Matt pulls just far enough away that it’s his breath on her lips instead of his mouth; his fingers keep her pinioned, tethered by his need to understand more than by any physical force. His head is tilted in that way she interprets as a single-minded focus on what he hears and she wonders what her body tells him, wonders if they speak the same language at all.

“This is…this is arousing for you.” He says it carefully, a statement of fact without judgment behind it. A starting point for dialogue. So she swallows hard (the tips of his fingers seem hot enough to burn) and nods, waiting for whatever he makes of that.

And it seems he doesn’t make _anything_ of it. Or at least, doesn’t know how to make something of it.

“Why?”

If she is startled by anything, it’s by the lack of assumption in his tone. She’s had people assume _things_ about this kink of hers. (She’s not particularly submissive, and not at all masochistic. She doesn’t want to be tamed or mastered.) (If she wants anything, then what she _wants_ is to be matched strength for strength.) But Matt doesn’t seem to be assuming any of those things, which leaves her without a good place to start explaining.

 _Does he have to ask such open ended questions?_ “Because the human brain is mysterious and unknowable? Are you really asking me to explain why this particular kink is the one that turns me on instead of something else?”

“No. Yes. How can anything this vulnerable be arousing?”

 _Ohhhhh…_ Vulnerable. That probably explains some things.

“You think I enjoy being vulnerable.” She says it slowly, repeating his words back to him to make sure she understands.

“My hand is practically around your neck.” As if to emphasize his point, his hand moves as he speaks, the broad palm of his hand resting at the base of her throat as his fingers gently flex into the side of her neck. “You say you understand what I’m capable of, so I’m at a loss to describe it as anything else.”

“I don’t enjoy being helpless.” Because that’s what he means by _vulnerable._ He means being uncertain, powerless, weak.

“Then what is this, Claire?”

“With you? With you, I am safer with your hand around my neck than I am an arm’s length from anyone else.” She’s not sure he’ll believe her this time either; his face is clear of any emotion, of any hint of how he’s processing any of this. So what can she equate it to? Or rather, should she draw her parallels directly or circumspectly?

“I’m not sure you know what ‘safe’ actually means,” Matt says dryly as he removes his hand and scoots away. He goes so far as to actually seat himself on the coffee table. Though, with his forearms braced on his knees and his eyes focused somewhere in the vicinity of her sternum, he’s clearly still strongly focused on whatever her body is saying underneath her words.

If she hadn’t known how stubborn he could be when she’d gone into this relationship, she would probably be upset now. Instead she’s merely frustrated. Somehow he’s gotten it into his head that there is something dark and dangerous in him that doesn’t exist in her, which is a little…offensive? Mmm…perhaps patronizing is a better word. If he needs icons he can go to church. There’s only humans in this relationship. (She wants so badly to be both “precious” _and_ equal. She will not settle for less.)

So it’s with narrowed eyes and steely reserve that she sits up and meets his doubts – all of them – with some questions of her own.

“Matt? Could I hurt you – _really_ hurt you – if I wanted to? Do I possess that knowledge and the will to use it?” Of course she does. He has to know that by now.

His response is non-verbal; a single, sharp nod of his head, as if it pains him to admit it.

“Okay. So, for argument’s sake, can we agree that I probably also know how to permanently deafen you…if I wanted to.”

“Claire –”

“Could I? Yes or no.”

“Yes.” He sounds angry at having to agree. Almost as if he doesn’t like hearing what she _could_ – but would never – do to him.

Imagine that. _Ridiculous man._

“But last night you let me temporarily – albeit ineffectively – deafen you. And once you got past the surprise, it was…not completely terrible? Why’s that?”

“Because you’d never hurt –”

“Never? We’ve had this discussion. Every time I have to patch you up, I hurt you a little more. So why trust me?”

Matt makes a sound that betrays his own frustration; he stands abruptly and turns his back to her, walking a few steps away before running his hands through his hair and facing her once again. “Fine. You’d never cause me needless pain. So clearly you had a reason for…that.”

“You believe that? _Trust_ that? Trust me?”

That question seems to soften him a little, even if he stays halfway across the room. “Unequivocally.”

“Good. So tell me; in terms of relative threat or safety, how is your hand around my throat different than my hand against your ear?”

He deflates entirely, and scrubs his hands through his hair again. “Just for the record, we could be naked in bed right now instead of fighting.”

This isn’t fighting. This is healthy discussion. But he’ll figure that out when they finally get around to actually fighting. “Yeah, here’s the thing. Naked in bed isn’t that attractive when your partner wants to pretend you’re a saint while he’s harboring some unspeakable menace.”

Silence falls while Matt considers that. Outside, rain falls without letup, adding a soft percussion to the sounds of traffic. Claire tries not the fidget, doesn’t want to undermine her efforts with anything that be construed as second thoughts or indecision. But knowing a conversation will be hard and waiting out the ensuing awkward silences are two different things.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re incredibly…ruthless.”

Claire can’t help the way that her breath catches a little, or how for the first time since they woke she can’t maintain eye contact (even knowing that Matt can’t see her). Ruthless is a new one, but she’s heard the synonyms. Hard ass. Uncompromising. Demanding. She shrugs (silently); wets her lips and looks out the window, trying to decide how (or if she even should) answer. Picks at a thumbnail and shrugs again, more for her own benefit than his. Studiously ignores the sound of his soft footfalls as he slowly approaches. Sighs, but doesn’t pull away as he reaches for her hands.

“Hey. I didn’t say that was a bad thing.”

He doesn’t need to. Not when others have made it clear that her tenacity is one of her less endearing traits.

“Maybe relationships need a little less honesty sometimes.” She tries to make the words sound light, like he hasn’t accidentally hit a spot far more vulnerable than her bared throat could ever be. Doesn’t quite hit the right tone. Decides to be quiet instead of attempting to recover.

“I think…” She glances over, unable to stop herself when Matt hesitates and clears his throat. “I think we might define ‘ruthless’ as differently as we define ‘safe.’ Ruthlessness has its place. The boxing ring. The courtroom. The operating table.”

He seems sincere. And he’s never lied to her yet. Not even to spare her feelings.

“Thank you.” Her voice is little more than a whisper, but she squeezes his fingers tightly, holding on to the offered support.

 

+

 

“It wasn’t enough.”

Matt’s voice is low and rough, breaking the silence they’d fallen into as they each tried to recover their equilibrium. Or at least, that’s what Claire’s been doing. She’s even come pretty close, reminding herself that the last thing Matt wants is for her to soften or compromise who she is just to make life easier.

“What wasn’t?”

“Last night. Your hand. I could still hear…” His hand tightens around hers until the knuckles become prominent; he loosens his grip when she instinctively flexes her fingers within the tight grasp, but doesn’t let go. As if this time he’s the one needing the comfort. “It was too much because it wasn’t…enough.”

“Oh.”

“But maybe if we did it…better…it would be enough.” Claire watches as his tongue darts out to wet his lips, as his fingers chafe at hers, idly tracing the bones and rubbing the joints. “I want to understand your definition of safety.”

She nods, unable to find the words she wants, and equally incapable of restraining her smile. “Yeah. Okay.”


	14. Chapter 14

The door to Karen’s apartment flies open while they’re still halfway down the hall.

“Hey! You made it just in time!”

Matt can feel Claire hesitate behind him, as if Foggy’s enthusiasm is somehow obstructive. It’d been a bit of a negotiation to get Claire to even come (he hadn’t realized how deep her own wounds were until she started trying to cover them). But he’d made the argument that he wants her as part of his daylight life, and not just when they’re alone.

“In time for what?” So here she is – however dubiously (“But Matt, I don’t want to intrude…”) – and Matt’s having a hard time getting over how (fragile) (uncertain) cautious she is. (He thinks about reaching back, taking her hand, but she’s a step too far back for that and he doesn’t want to draw attention to her that she doesn’t want.) He’d thought _this_ – being around other people – would help. Would help her relax. Help her find her balance. (It never occurred to him that just because he and Claire “clicked” so quickly, that she might need time to warm up to other people.)

Foggy waits until they’re actually at the door to explain. “Junk food run. Karen is woefully unprepared for a rainy day Netflix marathon. Poor kid doesn’t even have popcorn –”

“I do too have popcorn, Foggy!” Karen’s voice floats out the open door, light and choked with laughter.

Foggy’s voice turns back into the apartment, and Matt can feel the air swirl as he gesticulates. “No, you have some kind of low-sodium, low-fat, 100 calorie sawdust crap that I wouldn’t feed to my worst enemy, much less my best friends. And Claire.”

Before Claire – or Matt on her behalf – can protest the phrasing of that, Karen makes an excited sound. Matt can hear hobbling footsteps and ducks his head to hide a grin.

Perhaps this wasn’t a terrible idea after all.

“Claire! You made it! You’re not working.” Karen’s voice is bright and smiling even as she braces herself. (The floor creaks heavily under her left foot, her fingernails dig into the wood of the doorframe.)

“Uhhh… I suppose that’s true. In a manner of speaking.” Claire (predictably) brushes past Matt, Foggy, and Karen’s protests to help the other woman back towards the couch. “ _You_ are not supposed to be to be walking on that ankle unnecessarily.”

“You can take the nurse out of the hospital…” Foggy says to Matt quietly.

“Yeah. Something like that.” It’s one of Matt’s favorite things about Claire (to risk using the word that’d upset her earlier), her ruthless compassion. Nursing isn’t just a job for her; it’s who she is.

“Dude, you got it bad.”

“Thanks for that observation, Fog.” Half of his attention is inside the apartment. He can hear Claire getting Karen settled in, can imagine he can hear her relaxing as she chatters effortlessly about people who don’t have the good sense to take care of themselves.

“Anytime. So, coming with?”

Karen seems to taking it all very seriously but for the laughter in her voice whenever she responds to Claire’s admonitions.

“Matt?”

“Huh?”

Foggy steps in closer. “Will you stop eavesdropping, please?” His voice is quiet enough that the girls won’t be able to hear it, but no less intense for that.

“I’m not.” The denial is automatic.

“Yeah. You are.” Foggy tugs him to the side, out of the path of the open door. “Look, I get it, Murdock. Claire’s been your secret. But she’s in there with Karen – who in addition to being incapable of hurting a fly has also spent the last hour speculating whether or not Claire was coming with you. So what you actually need to worry about is whether they’re getting along like a one or a five alarm house fire by the time we return bearing gifts of sugar and saturated fat.”

Matt taps the end of his cane against the floor, thinking it over. Claire might have been reluctant to come, but she’s a big girl; if she hadn’t wanted to come, she wouldn’t have.

He steps around Foggy and sticks his head in the door. “Claire? Favorite junk food?”

“Uhh…” He can’t tell if she’s having trouble switching mental gears or if she going to deny that she eats anything more unhealthy than the occasional cheeseburger. “Oreos and peanut butter. Like, really cheap peanut butter, where peanuts are just barely the first ingredient.”

“Oh, good one,” Karen says. “I go for the rolls of Tollhouse cookie dough.”

“Nice.” And Claire actually sounds admiring. Matt wonders if this is a natural thing, women bonding over junk food.

“What? No comments about salmonella from the nurse?”

“Nah. Maybe you’d have to worry if you let it sit around open for a couple hours before you ate it, but that stuff comes pasteurized.”

“Huh. I’d never thought about it that way. Foggy! Bring back chocolate chip cookie dough.”

Foggy leans around Matt’s shoulder. “Are we baking now? I didn’t bring my apron.”

“We are most definitely not…baking.” Matt can hear Karen suck air in through her teeth, hear Claire’s soft sounds of comfort, feel Foggy stiffen next to him. There’s a low creaking sound, like a stiff can opener. Claire must be examining Karen’s sprain. “We are engaging in the most dangerous behavior possible from the comfort of this couch.”

“Unsafe snacking,” Claire adds, her tone wry.

Foggy snorts. “Aren’t you two the pair of regular daredevils.”

Claire’s heart skips a beat, and Matt jumps in before _that_ topic can continue. “Oreos, cheap peanut butter, and cookie dough. Anything else for you ladies?”

 

+

 

Movies really aren’t Matt’s thing. Live plays aren’t bad, if he’s sitting close enough to the stage. But movies are only really worthwhile if Foggy is narrating them. Since that’s inappropriate to do in a theater and apparently irritating to make other people sit through in a social situation, it means Matt hasn’t “seen” a lot of movies.

This though…this is nice, due in no little part to Claire relaxing enough to rest her head on his shoulder. Actually, they’re all kind of piled up, with Karen leaning on one arm of the couch with her legs stretched across Foggy’s lap and her ankle propped on Matt’s knee. (Claire hadn’t hesitated to shove a pillow under it, elevating the injury further.) Meanwhile, Claire’s stretched out along his side, her feet (in his socks) knocking against his on the table in front of them, and her shoulders relaxed under his arm.

The people he cares about most are safe and content, wrapped up in blankets and overfed on junk food. Foggy’s narration keeps Karen giggling and stirs the occasional laugh from Claire (who seems to be half asleep). The girls keep choosing good movies (as in, movies that lend themselves to narration, no action flicks).

This is as content as he’s been in a long time. And despite all that, the inactivity is starting to wear on him.

He shifts in his seat, wincing as both Karen and Claire stir in response. But Karen doesn’t get far, what with Foggy’s arms propped on her legs and Claire settles back in after stretching out her spine. She reaches across him for some of the popcorn Foggy’s holding. Matt steals a piece from her hand, taste buds singing out at the faint taste of her skin. It settles him a bit. But, when the movie ends and Claire gets to her feet with a groan, he’s glad for the excuse to follow suit.

“I’m going to fall asleep of we watch another movie,” Karen says through a yawn.

“Same here,” Claire says. Matt wishes (fervently) that he could see; her voice travels from where he expects it to be to some place closer to his knees. She must be stretching. If they were alone he wouldn’t hesitate to walk up to her and reach out, use his hands to build a picture. (Maybe use his hands to do a little more than that.)

“We could play cards,” Foggy offers with a groan of his own.

Matt grins as Karen makes a confused sound. “But what about Matt?”

“Ehhh… You know, the way he can’t read anyone’s poker face is a real handicap, but he _is_ a lawyer, so his bluffs make up for it.” Foggy walks away and digs around for something.

“Really? Blind puns?” Claire stops her lazy stretches and comes to stand next to him, her presence a comfortable pull on his focus.

“Yeah. Worked through most of the obvious jokes the first year we were roomies. Had to move on to something a little harder to see coming.” Foggy tosses something – presumably a deck of cards – through the air. Karen catches it with a surprised grunt.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised by Braille playing cards, but I am.” Matt can hear cardboard fanning across cardboard, imagines Karen examining the Braille markings intently. He can also hear Claire’s silence next to him. She’s so straight forward about so many things that it wouldn’t have occurred to him that Foggy’s refusal to dance around his blindness would bother her.

Matt brushes his nose against Claire’s temple (How’s that for a pun?), presses a soft kiss to her hair. “Claire, it’s okay,” he says soft enough that only she will hear it.

She sighs. “Fine. I guess I can turn a blind eye.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“It’s not exactly rocket science.” She raises her voice enough for everyone else to hear. “I have to assume Foggy’s already worked through his best stuff.”

“I’d like to hear you do better, Temple.”

“Alright.” She takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly as if thinking. “Did you hear about the miracle of the blind carpenter? He picked up his hammer and saw.”

“That is… _terrible_ ,” Foggy says after several seconds, but he sounds delighted. “You get first deal.”

 

+

 

“I’ve got one ten.”

“Bullshit.” Karen is vicious. And competitive. “That was more than one card.”

Foggy sighs and goes off on some tangent about not having to incriminate himself by turning over the cards while Claire reaches out and turns the discard pile over.

“Yeah, those threes are mine.” She taps for emphasis. “Foggy dropped these.”

“Wait! Claire just admitted to lying first. She’s going to have to take at least half the deck herself.”

“Or you could just lie better,” Matt points out helpfully.

“Matt! We’re partners. You’re supposed to defend me against card sharps.” The cards slide across the table as Foggy picks up the deck.

Matt grins at his cards and swipes a thumb along the edges to check them again, and listens haphazardly to the other players. No one is sleepy now, and since the entire point of the game is to lie, it’s harder to pick up on the usual physical cues that might give away a liar. If they were playing poker it’d be easer – usually is when stakes of some sort are involved. But right now the only stakes are making sure Karen doesn’t win her third game in a row.

Because she’s vicious and competitive.

And…really, really good at this game.

 

+

 

Claire is stifling yawns. He thinks it’s probably the second beer that’s done her in. The card game had dissolved into chaos (“Com’on, Kare-bear, best five out of nine.”) and then into card throwing (for which Karen had scrounged up a couple of beat up decks of her own), into Foggy telling Matt just to throw the cards towards the sound of his voice. So Matt takes his turns without putting any effort into it (still manages to hit Foggy in the face a few times). And somehow it’d devolved into a drinking game, Claire and Karen taking a drink when they get a card into the bowl, and Matt taking one where he hits Foggy. He thinks Foggy’s deliberately dodging the cards (or moving in front of them), but since this has devolved into an excuse to drink, he suppose it doesn’t matter.

Claire stifles another yawn and drains her beer, accompanied by a flick her wrist. If Foggy hadn’t dodged, her card probably would have him in the forehead. She sets her empty on the table and clambers to her feet.

“Nooooo…” Karen groans. “Don’t go. It’s only…ten. How is it already ten?”

“Time flies?” Claire suggests through another yawn. 

Matt stands up, suddenly aware that while he talked Claire into coming here with him, he hadn’t bothered to think beyond that point. What he does want is to leave the way he came. With Claire. Wants to have a reason to stay home instead of heading fruitlessly out into the icy rain that’s still pissing down out there. (Trying to navigate through the rain is only a little worse than dealing with sinus pressure – throws off his equilibrium in a slightly different way. He can walk down the street just fine, but his fancier maneuvers take an extra split second to calculate.)

And more than that, he wants _her_ to have a reason to stick around a little longer. Wants to spend another night wrapped around her, lulled to sleep by the sound of her breathing and the surge of her pulse. Wants to hear her to wake up (and wake up, and wake up) with that self-satisfied little purr.

She jokes, but it would be worth it – every ache and pain, her every disapproval of the reasons behind them – to not wake up alone on those mornings he actually gets some sleep. (To not feel so alone on those nights when he gets no sleep at all.)

“Jesus, Matt. You’re such a lightweight.” Karen sounds amused.

“What?” Claire’s already slipping into her coat. He should have offered to help with that. Or maybe not. He doubts she was waiting for him to make the offer, or is insulted that he didn’t.

“Claire, make sure he gets home in one piece?”

She snorts softly; Matt can only imagine what she must make of Karen’s protectiveness. “He’s the man. I thought after dark it was his job to make sure _I_ got home safe.”

“Technically, it’s always after dark for me.” Matt finds his cane and the umbrella, which Claire takes from him so he can take her arm.

“You’re funny.” Claire pats his cheek. “But hey, at least looks aren’t everything.”

“Wait. Is there something wrong with the way I look? Foggy, have you been sparing my feelings?”

“You’re already a bit of an odd duck. I didn’t want to point out the warts. Or the harelip.”

“Claire –”

“I’m just in it for your money, famous defense attorney that you are.” She gives his cheek one last pat and then turns around. “Alright. Uh…Karen, stay off that ankle, let Foggy clean up. Foggy, clean up so that Karen won’t be picking up after you five minutes after you leave.”

“Karen wouldn’t…” Foggy trails off. Maybe Karen looks like she would. “Really? You’d clean up after me instead of telling me I missed something?”

“Well… It’s rude to tell other people they’re not good at cleaning –”

Karen and Foggy say distracted goodbyes as they continue their argument about cleaning, and friends, and friends who do cleaning…

Claire sighs deeply, as if taking a moment to enjoy the silence. Then she squeezes his hand with the crook of her elbow and starts walking.

 

+

 

They’re halfway home…to his apartment…before Matt breaks the silence. The rain patters against the umbrella and makes the air heavy with the scent of chemicals awakened by the moisture. And Claire, walking slowly but confidently.

“So.” When he doesn’t continue, Claire hums a question. “Are you just planning on walking me to the door, or are you coming in for a nightcap?”

“Matthew Murdock. Are you coming on to me?”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know. I haven’t decided yet. I, uh… I’m used to spending more…”

“More time alone?” he says, suspecting the truth behind what she’s having trouble saying.

“Something like that, yeah. Not that I didn’t, I had fun today –”

“Claire.” He stops and tugs on her arm until she pivots towards him. She has a way of breathing when she’s waiting for him to make his case so that she can render her own judgment. It’s wonderful and frustrating at the same time. “I get it,” he says, listening to quiet streets around them. “We’ve had…we’ve done a lot today. You and me. But what if you came over, read some of that book you keep in your purse, maybe sit in the dark with me for awhile and listen to the rain, and then we go to bed.”

“When you say, in the dark…?”

“With the lights out. Inside the apartment, at least. I can’t do anything about the billboard.”

“And that’s it. No…nightcap?”

“Can I be blunt, Nurse Temple?”

“Please.”

He leans in, ghosts a kiss against the corner of her mouth. “Sex is nice, but a lack of it’s not a deal breaker.”

The rain keeps falling; he’s close enough that he can feel Claire bite her bottom lip as she smiles. “And tomorrow?”

He can’t tell if it’s an honest to God test, or flirting. “‘Do not be anxious for tomorrow, for tomorrow will take care of itself.’”

She freezes. “I’m sorry. Did you just go from talking about possible sexy-times to quoting the Bible?”

“It’s not that big of a jump. I could quote some of my favorite parts of the Song of Solomon to you.”

“Oh. Ohhh… No.”

“You sure?”

“I will take you up on the rest of it, but let’s save the sacrilegious kinks for when we’re not standing in a rainstorm holding an umbrella, hmm?” She starts walking again, pulling him along for a few steps before he falls back into pace. “We ate all your bread earlier.”

“I’ll get some in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who’s interested, Karen picks the first movie (The Princess Bride), Claire picks the second (The ‘Burbs, a fantastically dark humored Tom Hanks movie), and then Karen picks the 1993 version of Much Ado About Nothing.
> 
> Also, the “looks aren’t everything line” – well, you can blame my Dove bar for that. It told me to quote my dad, and that was one of his favorite lines to say every time I pointed out how funny I was. Dad jokes, amirite?


	15. Chapter 15

“You know, when you asked if I had plans tonight…” She eases him back in his chair, watching carefully to see how he responds. “…I was imagining less blood.”

Matt grins ruefully, so Claire prods him in the ribs harder than she needs to. (Not that she needs to at all, but he deserves it.)

“Ow!” His groan is almost pitiful enough to make her regret picking on him. “What was that for? I even brought flowers this time.”

That’s true. He did bring flowers with him this time. Claire glances over to where the bouquet he brought lies half-buried by bloody gauze. It’s a generic supermarket mix, but she’s a firm believer in “it’s the thought that counts.” What’s more interesting is how he managed to get them here, while looking like _that_ (meaning, in full body armor and nose doing a great Niagara Falls impression).

Unless he didn’t.

“Did you leave these on my fire escape so you could collect them later?”

“Well, now you’re asking for trade secrets.” Matt groans some more as she peels his hand away from his face, and the gauze he’s holding with it. There’s still a little trickle of blood from his nose, but it seems as if they’ve mostly stemmed the flow.

She tosses the used gauze in a pile with the rest, looks him over with a critical eye as she strips off her gloves. Plenty of swelling going on, eyes already starting to look bruised. “Well. You want the good news or the bad news first?” she asks as if she doesn’t know him.

“Bad.” His voice is clogged. Not with emotion, but like he’s got a head cold. Nose injuries are a bitch.

“This is going to have you on the inactive list for…no less than week. Maybe more. It’s hard to tell at this juncture.” She watches – half amused, half irritated – at the way his body tries to squirm away from the information. As if denial is going to help a possibly broken nose. “I’m serious, Matt. You’re going to have a tough time on your urban jogs, much less rough-housing with your playmates if you can’t breathe.”

It’s odd, how often they seem to wait each other out. Maybe they just both like having time to debate pros and cons before making any final decisions. Or maybe they just both have a hard time admitting when someone else is right.

“Is this a test?” Matt asks.

“Absolutely.” Not that she wants it to be. Not really. God, she doesn’t want to be that person, laying out potential relationship death-traps and waiting to see what their partner will blunder into. (Not that Matt should be blundering into anything, because she has already outlined under what circumstances he’s allowed to risk life and limb and potential maiming under once she’s given her medical opinion, and she doesn’t think anyone else’s life is at stake, and they have _had_ this discussion, about how it’s hard enough for her to know what he’s risking when he’s at peak performance, and a potentially broken nose is anything but –)

“Hey.” Matt takes her hand, twining his fingers through hers. “Why ‘at least a week?’”

She squeezes his hand tight, (gratitude, relief, reassurance) thankfulness expressed as silently as she can manage. (He must hear how her heart settles as he decides not to force the issue.) (Or maybe not. The swelling that’s so apparent on his face would extend to his sinuses too.) “I can’t tell how bad it is. If something in there is actually broken –”

“It’s not. I’d hear it.”

_Sure._ Claire is tempted to do something to prove him wrong (throw something at him, make a sound and see if he could locate it, play Blindman’s Bluff), but she talks over him instead. “ – you’re going to need to see someone above my pay grade. Even then they’ll have to wait for all the swelling to go down. And that takes roughly a week. I don’t know. Maybe your Zen monk trick will work and it’ll take less time.”

Matt sighs heavily through his mouth, which would normally be quite attractive, but his teeth are stained slightly pink. “What’s the good news?”

“I don’t think it’s actually broken.” Which is good news from his point of view because it means he’ll be back on the streets faster. “But –”

“ – you can’t be certain.” She makes to get up but he squeezes her hand, making her pause. “Claire…”

They’re rather past the point of “thank you,” but she knows he means it.

She comes back to the table with extra strength Tylenol, a bottle of water, and a plastic bag of ice wrapped in a dish towel. “Take these.” She puts the pills and the water in his hands, and stands over him while he follows her directions. “Now hold on to this until I come back. No, no don’t do…” She sighs and tips his head forward with a gentle touch to the back of his skull. “That nosebleed isn’t completely gone yet.”

“I don’t want to bleed on your things.” His voice is muffled by the ice pack.

_Says the man who took a second job as a human punching bag._ “Keep that ice where it is, and try to refrain from making any snappy comebacks for at least ten minutes.” It would be mean to point out that his nose had already been…large…before it’d started to swell up, so Claire bites her tongue on that one. (And really, she’s kind of partial to his face.) “I’m going to clean up.”

There’s a towel on the floor between Matt’s feet that she leaves where it is, but all the gauze gets swept into the trash. (It had probably been an act of paranoia, but she’d changed to black trash bags shortly after meeting Matt.) The flowers get put into a mason jar as they are, just to keep them in water until she can get to them. Then she goes into the bathroom and sighs, changes out her latex gloves for rubber ones, and pulls the top half of Matt’s armor out of the bathtub. It drips with cold water.

This new armor of Matt’s…at least whoever had designed it had done so with an eye to easy removal, once you knew where all the clasps and buckles were. It’s actually pretty close to some motorcycle gear she’s seen. But for all that, it’s still not something she can just take down to the laundry room.

Sighing, she gets the spare tension curtain rod she’d bought just for an occasion like this out of her utility closet. She slips it into place and hangs the jacket up. There’s not much to be done for the cowl (and hadn’t it been fun, trying to slip that over Matt’s head while trying to avoid his face) but Claire wrings it out as best she can and sets it aside. The armor takes a little more work, mainly with a bottle of diluted laundry detergent and a sponge.

That’s when the sense of…unreality…sweeps her. Claire looks at the spray bottle in her hand, at the body armor dripping into the bathtub…

Her first _serious_ relationship had involved moving in with her girlfriend, who had been all about washing bras by hand and hanging them to dry. That’s the last time she’s done anyone else’s laundry. And now here she is, in a shockingly domestic relationship with a man people still call the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

But then again, Matt’s blind, so expecting him to pre-treat for stains _is_ kinda unreasonable.

_I wonder who does laundry for the Avengers._ What if there’s an entire industry out there focused on keeping bloodstains out of campy costumes and it’s completely unavailable to her?

Claire shakes her head and strips off her gloves. The armor is clean, if wet. Time will fix that. She turns the heat in the bathroom to high, flips on the exhaust fan, and closes the door.

“You really ought to get that thing waterproofed,” she tells Matt as she comes out of the bedroom. “It’d probably help repel blood, too.” He doesn’t respond, not really. Just turns his head as if he’s having a hard time placing her in space. As she suspected.

She sighs and shakes her head, wonders at what their domesticity looks like, the forms it takes.

“Hey there.” She sits in front of him again, sliding back into her chair easily and cupping his chin in her hand. He moves the ice pack out of her way and lets her tilt his head back so she can take a look at what’s going on. “Well, the bleeding’s stopped. That’s a good sign.”

His lips quirk and she can’t help but return the smile. “There’s not a lot I can do for you at this point. Like I said, I can’t judge if you need further medical assistance until the swelling starts to go down. Until then, you need to stay close to home and _rest_ …” She trails off as the smile slips from Matt’s face. “What?”

“Thought you didn’t have any plans.”

“You’re going to stay?” Not that she doesn’t want him to, but she’s surprised.

Matt’s voice is thick, clogged. “Yeah. Date night, remember?”

“I remember you having a hard time relaxing enough to fall asleep the last time you were here. I thought you might…prefer to go home.”

“Don’t think I’d sleep any better at home. And you’re here. So…” He shrugs, smiles again. “If I’m not going to sleep, I’d rather not sleep with you.”

That’s…sweet. She thinks. “If you’re staying here then we need to get you out of that shirt and cleaned up.”

 

+

 

It takes time, cleaning him up. He’s achy and just off balance enough to have her watching him like a hawk. (She won’t step in until he asks for help. Or is about to run into a doorframe face first.) Just getting him out of his compression shirt takes several minutes, or feels like it does. Washing his face clean takes even longer, and by the time she’s done, he seems glad for the ice pack.

“Time.”

He hands over the ice and rests his head back against her shoulder. “Now what?”

Her fingers slide through his hair, doing what she can to ease his discomfort. “Now you try to get some rest.” She knows from experience that any physical contact from her eases him. And though he’s never expressed a preference (well, he’s never _verbally_ expressed a preference) any time she touches his face he looks as satisfied as a tom cat. “You know how to do that, right?” Someday she’s going to scritch him under the chin and see what happens.

“I’d rather hear about those surprises you mentioned earlier. Date night surprises are always a good thing, right?”

Claire tries not to jostle him as she laughs. “Well, considering the shape you’re in, one of them is probably a very good thing.”

“Is it lacy?”

“No! It’s not that kind…” It’s a shame he can’t see the look she’s giving him, because she’d like to know that something other than her tone is telling him he’s nuts. “Did you want to pass out from blood loss?”

“Not particularly, but it’s hardly the worst way to go.”

“Alright, gloomy Gus. What do you normally do when you take a night off? If you’ve ever taken a night off.”

“Of course I’ve taken a night off.”

“When? College? High school?”

“I plead the fifth. And I do what other people do. Read…listen to Netflix…go to the gym.”

“ _You_ go to the gym.”

“I don’t punch people every night, you know. Gotta keep my hands in shape.”

“Mmm…” He has a point, not that she’s going to admit it. There are times that she’s still not easy with the way he uses his body.

Like when he refuses to admit his body is human even if his senses are something more.

“So. Lace, hm? Thought you were all about bare skin.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, an almost dreamy tone to his voice. “The contrast feels nice.” One of his hands steals under the hem of her shirt; it rests there, broad palm hot against her side. And it’s enough to make Claire rethink her knee-jerk reaction (of _course_ he enjoys a woman in lacy lingerie) (who doesn’t?) and take his words more seriously. This is a man with a serious case of touch deprivation, a man who engages the world with everything he is without thought of the cost but will finally grow quiescent (will finally find some sort of peace) if her body is pressed to his. No matter what – if any – clothes are between them.

If he says he enjoys the contrast between lace and skin, he might mean that as innocently as he is right now, pressed up against her in sweats and a worn thermal shirt. (After all, she is the one who implied more…intimate…activities related to the wearing of lace –)

“Claire?”

(– which opens up a world of possibilities, really.)

“What about you?”

“Well, I didn’t have any particular feelings about lace until just recently, but…”

Matt groans as he starts to laugh. “What about you? What do you do in your free time?”

“What free time?” Claire grins and drops her head back against the couch cushions. Her fingers keep their steady rhythm through his hair. “I’m a workaholic with a limited social circle and an injury-prone vigilante boyfriend.”

That makes his face scrunch up. Not much, due to…well. But he looks slightly affronted. “Flippant much?”

“Serious. You know what I’m like. A good week is forty hours, a bad week is sixty, and a _really_ bad week is claiming sick leave to hide from mobsters.” Matt stiffens against her; she sighs and drops her hand to his neck. “Sorry.”

“To be fair, that was a really bad week,” he finally responds. “Could have gone worse for me, though. Even if you’d have slightly more free time if I were –”

“Merely a pigheadedly idealistic lawyer? I agree.” They’re not going to speculate what her work/life balance would look like if he hadn’t been found in her dumpster. Just the thought is… She presses a kiss against his scalp. “You’d be spending all your free time looking over case briefs.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong.” He takes a couple of deep breaths through his mouth. “However, you have very neatly avoided answering the original question.” He shifts, holding his body stiffly, as if a simple change in position is going to clear his nose. “Is it embarrassing? Do you collect stamps? Pictures of kittens? Esoteric sex toys?”

“Better than collecting holes in black shirts.”

“Mmm…where’s a judge when you need one? My key witness is being uncooperative.”

“You’re ridiculous. I…” She sighs and rolls her eyes. “I sleep, okay? I sleep, and I prepare meals ahead of time so that even when I’m rushing around I don’t have to fall back on eating junk. I intermittently attend a hot yoga class. I go get a pedicure once a month. I used to read pulp fiction novels – before my life _became_ one – what?” Matt’s grinning at her as if she’s said something amusing. And since Matt’s social life is only marginally more active than hers, and his hobbies are part of the reason she has less time than usual to find an actual hobby of her own… “What?”

“I’m just…I’m glad you’re on your list of people to take care of.”

_Oh._ Claire watches him, considers the responses she could make, considers the difference between honesty and (frankly) uncomfortable emotion. Chooses to brush as much of it away as she can. Brusquely, she says, “Yeah, well, you can’t nag if you’re not going to follow your own advice.”

Matt’s lips quirk. “Oh. Oh, don’t make me laugh. My neck hurts.”

“A punch to the face will do that.”

“Remind me why I thought this was a good idea?”

“I’m afraid that’s outside the realm of my expertise.” She sighs and rubs his back. “Grab your ice pack and follow me. We’ll get to that first surprise.”

 

+

 

“Better than lace?” Claire presses herself against Matt’s back, rubs at his sore neck. He presses against her and then does something _extremely_ attractive: he relaxes his weight into her and her brand-new memory foam mattress topper.

“I bet it smells in here.” His head lolls on her shoulder. The ice pack obscures half his face, but she’s gotten pretty good at reading the bits of him he leaves exposed. He looks pleased.

“A bit,” she concedes.

“And I can’t smell a thing.”

Ahh, so that’s the source of his satisfaction. “So, better than lace?”

“Better than sleeping on a pile of rocks.”

“You are so mean to my poor mattress.” She slips out from behind him (no matter how she wants to stay) and grabs the spare pillows lying off to the side. Carefully she props most of them behind Matt, evaluating how he rests of them. “You’re going to be sleeping sitting up tonight. And your ribs aren’t even broken this time.”

“I guess I’ll…” he winces as she adjusts a pillow behind his head, “count my blessings.”

“That’s my boy. Give me that.” She takes the ice pack. “Do you want to put on pajamas?”

“Yeah.”

“Senses acting up?”

“A bit. Overcompensating. But you’d obviously…guessed that.”

“Yeah. You’re slightly more complicated than ‘one sense fails, the others take over,’ but I get the gist.”

They get him into heavy socks, into sweatpants, into a worn Columbia long-sleeved tee. She gets the blanket from the couch and a handful of break-and-chill first aid packs. Tucks him in, brushes his hair away from his face. As always, he relaxes under her touch. “Are you tired, or can I get you my laptop? We haven’t…we haven’t set it up for you to use yet, but I could bring up Netflix, or…”

“What are you doing?”

“Laundry. Folding laundry.”

“Netflix and laundry?”

He sounds almost hopeful.

_Domesticity_ , she reminds herself. “Okay.”

 

+

 

Claire puts on a documentary about Alexander Hamilton (following the latest craze) and settles cross-legged on her side of the bed with a basket of clean laundry. Matt makes it through two more cycles with the ice pack before dozing off. He rouses a little each time she gets up to put things away, but drops off quickly every time she comes back to the bed. It’s not until she’s climbing into bed herself that he actually wakes up.

“What’s happening?” He sounds…not alarmed. On edge.

“Shhh. Nothing’s happening. Here – ice yourself again.” She reaches over and takes his hand, putting the ice pack in it.

“It hurts.” But he complies, settling the bag over his nose and sinuses. “I think my eyeballs are frozen.”

He must be tired. Or cranky because his senses are out of whack. He doesn’t normally complain. About anything. “Wow. Hope that doesn’t damage your eyesight or anything.”

He laugh/moans. “Oh. Don’t do that.”

Claire smiles and huddles under her blankets. “You planning on going to work in the morning?”

“Any reason I shouldn’t?”

She thinks about it. The obvious answer is that it’s clearly hard for him to breathe normally, but he already knows that. “Unless you’re appearing in court, which I _really_ don’t recommend because you look like a street brawler –”

“No court appearances this week.”

“Then – and I hesitate to say this – just use common sense and call it a day if you need to.”

“What about you? You working?”

“Mmm… Six to six. I’ll be gone before you. I’ll get some painkillers into you before I go.”

“Never doubted it. What time is it?”

“10:13. The benefit of long winter nights is that you get your shit done earlier. Or kicked out of you earlier.”

“Pragmatic as always.”

“It’s why you love me.” The words just slip out without any consideration of any deeper meaning. Isn’t intending for her words to even _have_ a deeper meaning. But Matt’s chilly hand brushes her face, aim off a little, fingertips landing on her nose before finding her cheek.

“It’s not the only reason.”

It’s going to be weird, sleeping next to him like this. The whole difference in elevation. “Hmm?”

“Your pragmatism. It’s not the only reason I…that I…”

_Oh._ Ohhhh…

Claire curls closer, flings an arm over his waist and turns her face into his touch. They still haven’t said the words – _those_ words – not since she’d taken a step back, surveyed Matt’s slash-and-burn technique to taking down the Russian mob and later Fisk, and admitted out loud that they were both in very real danger. (Not the same danger, but danger all the same.) She wonders if he’s been waiting for her to utter the words again or if he’d been working up the nerve for awhile. (Is still working up the nerve if the stuttering is any indication.) So she turns her head and says into the palm of his hand, “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the hiatus got a little out of hand. I'm blaming Jessica Jones. Or perhaps I should be blaming Claire since she wants everything to be her fault. :)
> 
> Anyway, longer than normal chapter to make up for the absence. A bit on the fluffy side but setting things up nicely for some sensory deprivation next chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

Matt spends the night drifting between a doze and a light meditative state. Even with the mattress pad, the bed has unexpectedly pokey bits, but it also has Claire. And as always, this basic fact trumps anything else. Claire herself is a steady warmth at his side. For all that she’s a cuddler when they first go to bed and early in the morning, she spends the night curled up on her side, facing away from him. (Or he assumes from past experience.) (He’s under one set of blankets, and she another. He can’t even feel the gentle stir of air caused by breathing.)

It’s restful, though, just as he’d hoped it would be. Her company, that is. The warmth of her body a silent reminder that he’s not alone. Then she moves around, her body making the bed shift and shake until she settles again. When she does, her forehead is pressed against his side, an all too tiny point of contact. But it’s enough.

He sleeps a little more after that.

 

+

 

It occurs to Matt some uncounted number of hours later, that this is a first. Not so much the staying over bit – even before Claire, that had happened occasionally, when his senses would cooperate with him. But _this_ , the unhurried pace Claire uses to get ready for her day, the level of comfort it speaks of…that’s new for him. She moves around quietly but confidently, like she knows she doesn’t have a chance of _not_ waking him. (He’s not certain, but he suspects that if she’d tried to be circumspect, or worse, furtive, that he probably would have reacted…badly.)

He still can’t smell a damn thing, and his sense of hearing is more muffled than it’d been the night before, but Claire’s heat is familiar, the way she moves, the vibrations she causes. It’s her weight on the edge of the bed that finally rouses him completely.

“You look like shit.” The criticism is affectionate, as gentle as the fingers that play over his hair as she strokes it off his forehead. “You’re a goddamned mess, Murdock.”

The accusation – so close to the words she’d said before walking away those months ago – has surprisingly little power over him. He closes his empty hand around the strange warmth in his palm. ( _“I love you, too.”_ Claire’s bravery, her audacity, her honesty branding him.) Tries to smile without hurting himself. “But it’s one of the reasons you love me?”

“Mmm. I wouldn’t go that far. You have many sterling qualities, but I’m not sure I want to rank your ability to stoically endure pain among them.” She strokes a thumb just under his bottom lip. “Com’on, sit up and take something for the swelling, if nothing else.”

And he has to say this for Claire: she’s isn’t one for hovering. She doesn’t help him to sit up, doesn’t help steady him when the pressure in his head throws off his sense of balance. Just drops the pills she wants him to take in his palm when he’s ready and walks away. Lets him manage for himself.

When she comes back she’s wearing shoes. “Hey. It’s 5:26. If you’re not going to go back to sleep, you should go back to icing your face. In fact, you should probably stay here for the rest of the day and take it easy.”

“Claire…” He takes her hand, runs his fingers along her palm. Doesn’t bother to finish his protest.

“New house rule. I’m entitled to one attempt to talk sense into you when you’re being stubborn.” Her sigh gusts towards him, washes against his skin. “Okay. Try to ice it, then, even while you’re at work. The good news is that you can cut back to fifteen minutes every couple of hours, but your friends are going to want to fuss and asking for ice packs will be an easy way to divert them.” She pats his chest and sighs again. “I’m off, then. Let me know where you end up tonight. I’d like to at least check in on you –”

“I’ll be here.” He can feel the way her heart speeds up in pleasure.

“Well. Just let me know if you change your mind.” Her fingers squeeze his as she leans in, presses a barely-there kiss to his mouth. “Be smart. Don’t push yourself. And I’ll see you tonight.” The words are brisk, business-like; the way she slides her hand out of his is tender.

And then she’s gone, off to solve other problems, take care of other hurts.

With a groan, Matt reaches for the cold pack Claire left on the nightstand and settles it in place.

 

+

 

Silence meets his entrance to the office. Well, almost silence, except for the harsh sound of his own labored breathing. He can taste Karen’s perfume and Foggy’s aftershave on the air as he tries to catch his breath.

“Holy…shit.” Karen’s chair hits the wall as she stands abruptly. “What happened? Are you okay? Have you seen a doctor?”

“Morning.” He sets his things down, wincing as the change in position intensifies the throbbing in his face. He’s been so distracted by the way his senses are compromised that he’d forgotten he’d need to explain this away for Karen. As he strips off his coat, he tries to come up with something better than ' _Walked into a door frame.'_

Claire could have reminded him about the need for this. That she didn’t tells him all he needs to know about how she feels about Karen’s continued ignorance of his nocturnal activities. But she’s big on letting him make decisions on his own, even when she disapproves of them. (He’d made the mistake of asking about that, early on, and gotten a lecture about how she only dates adults, and adults don’t need anyone to police their behavior.)

“Matt?” Karen’s hovering now, the floorboards shifting underfoot as she circles him without actually touching.

Foggy isn’t exactly tripping over himself to help either, but then Matt knows _his_ stance on the subject.

“Claire said a doctor wouldn’t be able to make any judgment calls until the swelling goes down in a few days. So no, she didn’t rush me to a doctor last night.”

“Thought you said last night was date night.”

Matt keeps himself from frowning. Barely. He can hear the insinuation in Foggy’s tone; that this is some kind of…romantic mishap. (Which is not a _terrible_ cover story, even if it is unflattering.)

“Oh.” Karen at least is close enough that he can hear her body reacting in embarrassment. But she’s a trooper, and picks up the ball Foggy dropped and runs with it. “Was that dinner-and-a-movie date night, or _date_ date night?”

He’s suddenly reminded of the doctor/mother-in-law/terrible sex discussion from a few weeks ago. (What does it say about him that his friends like to gang up on him?)

“Do we have any ice? The building has a lot more stairs than it did yesterday.” He reclaims his shoulder bag and tries to escape to his office. (Unsuccessfully, since Karen and Foggy follow.)

“Some. I don’t think we have anything but coffee mugs to put it in, though.”

Matt produces an empty blue first aid bottle with a screw cap. He would have filled it at his apartment if he’d had ice or the patience to deal with it on his way to work. Karen (click of heels on the floor) takes it from him.

“Claire knows you’re here?” Foggy sounds deliberately uninterested. Which probably means he thinks Matt’s here AMA.

“Claire’s not the boss of me,” he mutters. “Thanks, Karen.”

“Well, it seems to me that the least she could do is give you a note to skip work. Since date night went awry. Do I even want to know what you were doing that could have ended up this way?’

“I can think of at least one thing,” Karen says under her breath as she comes back into the office.

“It’s not what you think. I surprised her.” (Which is completely true.) “Won’t do it again.” (Which is probably less true than he’d like it to be.) He takes the ice from Karen and, after taking off his glasses, settles it in place. “I think there’s ice forming in my sinuses.” But the biting chill is still a relief, even if it’s only because the sensation is different than the throbbing in his face.

“Are you sure you should be here, buddy?” This time Foggy sounds less reproachful (condemning) and more concerned.

“Yeah. Claire would have put her foot down if she’d thought she needed to.”

Foggy makes a whip-crack sound and thumps the doorframe with a loose fist. “Whatever you say. Just take it easy and try not to sneak up on Karen. With your luck she might mace you.”

“Thanks a lot, Foggy. Matt, coffee?”

 

+

 

That should be the end of it. (It’s not, of course. Foggy’s determined to come up with the most outlandish scenario for how Claire might have accidentally broken his nose; Karen finds a reason to check on him every hour or so. And this despite the work they’re doing on a proposed settlement for a case they’re trying to settle out of court.) As for himself, he sits in his office with a stack of court documents he’s supposed to be filing on behalf of the residents of a tenement down by the Lincoln tunnel. (Word has gotten around and these kinds of cases have started to make up the backbone of their firm.) The cases move infuriatingly slowly, but sometimes just _doing_ something makes people feel better. Gives them hope. (He knows something about that.)

(And with a dependable influx of cash, Foggy worries less about the clients they take on who are more likely to pay them back in favors than anything else.)

However, the stack sits on his desk, untouched, as he tries (and fails) to focus on anything besides what isn’t there, the hole in his senses. He knows what he _should_ be able to hear. To smell. The building has become familiar enough that _knowing_ should be enough. He knows when half the building takes a cigarette break, when they tread to the restrooms, when the woman in the suite below them is fighting with her boyfriend and the man across the hall is habitually running late.

He _knows_.

He just can’t tell for sure.

And he _should –_

“Hey, Matt?”

Karen startles him. He’s so focused on trying to make sense of the world around his current impairments that he’s missing the obvious things. Like Karen coming into the office with an ice pack refresher.

“Hey, easy. Are you sure you’re doing okay?” Her obvious concern (to his obvious discomfort) sharpens the edges of a temper already bristling at his inability to just _focus_.

“I’m fine.” It comes out harsher than he’d intended, but Claire had been right about the hovering. The extra attention, the solicitousness. _He_ knows how bad off he is; Claire and Foggy both suspect; but to Karen he should be no less capable than normal. “I’m fine.” He manages to sound calm this time.

“Are you sure? You seem…distracted.”

“It’s okay. Really. I’ll be –”

“Fine. I know.” Karen’s voice drops off to a grumble. “You keep saying that. Anyway. Foggy and I are going to go get some lunch. Do you want to come?”

Get out of the office? Away from everything he _knows_ but should be able to _tell_? Have to navigate his way around, even with Foggy and Karen? And then, to have to come back up the stairs with them _watching_?

“No, thanks. I, uh…” He pulls the untouched stack of client files towards him. “I need to get through these.”

“Okay. Can we bring you something back? Foggy wants to go to that food cart he likes.”

“Señor Chavez? I’m still not sure if it’s the food or the discount he likes better.” They’d gotten the junior Chavez off shoplifting charges. Which Foggy had learned about because he’d been there getting lunch.

“Is that a yes? Fish tacos? You’ve gotten those a couple of times.”

“Spend a lot of time spying on me?” There’s a flutter that he should be able to identify. He hadn’t thought the mice in the building had made it this far, but they’re ambitious bastards.

“More like spend a lot of time making sure you don’t trip over curbs.” Foggy appears in the doorway to the office. “You coming with, Murdock?”

“Nah. Gonna stay here and get some work done.”

“I’m not sure ‘nose to the grindstone’ is a good strategy for you right now.”

“He’s fine,” Karen responds sweetly before Matt can even open his mouth. “We’re bringing lunch back for him.”

“Fish tacos? No cilantro, yeah?”

“I can’t be that predictable.”

“Whatever you say, buddy. And I don’t hear you saying no. See you in sixty.”

 

+

 

The office is quieter (silent) with Karen and Foggy gone. It should help him relax, or at least make it easier to get some work done, but he finds himself straining even harder to push his compromised senses to their full extent. And growing more and more frustrated when his efforts come to nothing. (Frustrated is a nice way to phrase it. His temper is one surprise away from snapping.) He’s itchy, uncomfortable in his own skin.

The muffled silence is worse than…than…

Matt can’t quite catch his breath as he considers being caught against Claire’s chest. The comfort of her body pillowing his. Even now, like this, sheer proximity would make her heart as clear and easy to hear as a secret whispered directly in his ear. Even like this, the scent of her body would be incapable of being missed.

He’s thought about that night, about Claire’s hand over his ear, the pressure, the conflicting rhythms of his heartbeat and hers. Has debated whether he wants her to try again or drop it. (She has not raised the subject since their discussion about the differences between vulnerability and safety.) He doesn’t know if she’s waiting for him to bring it up or if she’s just rethought the merits of making a man with his capacity for violence uneasy.

Something in the building slams hard enough to rattle the walls, or at least the framed diplomas hanging on his walls. It sends a jolt straight up his spine to the base of his skull where it joins in with the headache starting to form. (It’s probably time for more pain killers.) It’s also the last straw.

It’s a long shot, but maybe (maybe) he’ll actually get something accomplished somewhere he’s _less_ familiar with, where he’s not on edge, trying to catch traces of the things he knows should be there.

He packs his things up, remembering to take some Tylenol when he hears the bottle rattling in his bag. Rather than call Foggy and deal with any “I told you so’s” he calls the office phone and leaves a message, just saying that he decided to work from home for the afternoon. It’s not quite the truth, but he doesn’t want to make a big deal about going to Claire’s. He doesn’t bother calling Claire – she’s already expecting to find him there when she gets home. She won’t mind if he gets there a little earlier than she’d been expecting.

 

+

 

Being in Claire’s apartment helps. He’s still feels like he’s on the verge of fighting off some kind of stimulatory feedback loop, but his temper has settled. And while the occasional odd noise catches his attention, and perhaps evokes a stronger response than necessary, he does manage to get some work done. By the time Foggy calls to check in on him (because Matt is _not_ at home and now what is he supposed to do with his fish tacos?) Matt’s gotten through half the stack of work he’d brought with him. It’s still taking three times as long to get anything done, but at least he feels justified in his decision to leave the office. (Even if he does check his watch obsessively, counting down to when he can expect Claire to get home.)

Claire calls when she gets off, wanting to know where he is, how he feels, if he’s been icing himself and taking his pain killers. He can hear the dueling surprise and satisfaction in her voice when he admits that he’d gone back to her apartment by one. (Apparently he’s not the only one who gets a little possessive about such things.) She talks him into dinner when she finds out he’s eaten next to nothing all day, promising that she’ll bring home something that will be easy on his stomach, and hangs up when she gets to the store she wants to bring dinner home from.

After that Matt can’t go back to work. His focus has been spotty all day, and now, knowing that Claire will be here soon… His restlessness gets the better of him. The need to move is hardwired into him; he paces through the apartment, returns to pushing his senses to their limit. (He thinks his hearing might be getting better – a little better – but that might be wishful thinking.) Spending part of the afternoon in meditation might have served him better, but though being in Claire’s apartment had helped him to relax a little, it hadn’t helped that much. Maybe once she’s actually here…

It’s not until Claire’s key is turning in the lock (pointlessly, he hadn’t locked the door behind him, but habits are hard to break) that he realizes just how much stress he’s feeling. And by that time, he’s pulled her into his arms and pressed her up against the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo! I thought for sure January (and the wicked case of bronchitis that came with it) was going to kill me for sure. But here I am after all. We're finally getting down to the meat of this sensory deprivation fic, after only going on a year of dithering about writing insane amounts of cuddle porn. I hope you're all as excited about it as I am.
> 
> Couple of other things. I assume this is a fairly common term, but AMA stands for against medical advice. Foggy probably things Claire should put her foot down about Matt and his ridiculous injuries more often, but she's not his mother and that's not her job. (And I love that she doesn't even try past a token effort at making Matt see common sense.)
> 
> The other thing is that in case you missed it, this fic is now part of a series! I've got a lot of little stories piling up about things that happen in this particular universe, and most of them include all the cuddle smut and smut smut you'd expect to see from me without any redeeming plot whatsoever. I'll post them now and again, but it's just so much fun to see these two and their relationship that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to leave this fic behind entirely.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw man, not gonna lie. This chapter was a fight to get written. I wanted to dive head first into some sensory deprivation (Matt's influence from the last chapter, I'm sure), but Claire was having none of that. Homegirl is all about informed consent. And that includes not jumping into something until she has a reasonable handle of what's going on. So...talking and cuddle porn. I'm sure you're super disappointed. (That's sarcasm. I know you're all weak in the knees for cuddle porn.)

“Oh.” Claire can’t help but feel a little…well, crushed. There’s not a lot of space left between Matt and the door. (Fact: the only space between Matt and the door is the space she’s occupying, and it feels like Matt’s trying to make that space smaller with every second.) She’s frozen there for a moment, hands full of plastic grocery bags.

“Matt? Let me put my things down.” She feels bad for asking (feels worse when he crushes her a little tighter, as if he can’t bear to let her go for even a moment), but he needs more than she can give with their dinner in her hands. And Matt, being Matt, holds her desperately close for one last second, then drops his arms and takes a step away. As if he’s going to pretend that hadn’t just happened.

“Hey, just hold on a sec.” She leans to the side and sets their dinner in the corner where no one will step on it. Then she fists a hand in his shirt and pulls him back in. Or tries to.

“It’s fine, Claire. I’m…fine.” He lets her reel him in, but his body is stiff with tension. Which is…predictable, really. (She doesn’t sigh. Not really. She just…breathes heavily for a moment.)

As a general rule, Claire doesn’t have much use for posturing. (At least not in her relationships.) But Matt is Matt, and he doesn’t give in to weakness. Even if all he wants is a hug and a snuggle. Contradicting him won’t help, because that’ll give him something to fight against, and she isn’t sure how to tell him (again) that it’s okay to need basic human contact.

Matt’s fingers trail over her frown, calling her back to herself. “What’re you thinking?”

“You really want to know?”

He does that thing he does when she catches him wrongfooted (ducks his head, furls his brow, licks his lips, widens his stance), but he nods.

“Okay. First of all –”

“There’s a list?”

“Hush. First of all, I was wishing you’d be a little more selfish from time to time.” And that makes him frown. Just the thought of being selfish goes against his Catholic-raised little heart. “And secondly I was thinking… I was thinking how nice it is to…come home. To someone.” (There’d been a smile on her face the entire time they’d been talking on the phone.)

He wets his lips again, but this time there’s a self-consciously pleased little smile on his face. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” And this time when she tugs on his shirt, Matt steps into her. His arms slide around her and once more she’s pressed against the door. But gently this time. His embrace is no longer threatening to interfere with her ability to breathe.

With a small hum of satisfaction she guides his head to her shoulder and presses her lips against his neck. He smells hot and humid; his back is sweaty under the slow strokes of her hands. (He’s clearly more worked up than he’d wanted to admit.) But he relaxes the longer they stay in contact, as she starts humming a snatch of song she’d heard in the grocery store under her breath.

His arms shift, his hold becoming less about ensuring she can’t leave and more about intimacy. Not in a sexual way – he’s not groping her. But there’s ways you touch people when their body is your safe space. Arms around waists instead of shoulders, hands cupping, fingers tensing, legs tangling, bellies touching.

“Claire?”

“Mmm?”

His breath catches a little. “Will you…will you do something for me?”

“Mmmhmm.” She’s not sure what he wants, but him asking for it is a huge step (considering he won’t ask for hugs when he needs them).

And then he does something really unexpected. He grabs her wrists and pulls her hands over his ears. Holds them there until her first reaction (which is to pull them away) passes. Then he lets go and wraps his arms back around her, resting his forehead against hers. The sigh he lets out is…she knows what it looks like when a painkiller starts to kick in. It’s a lot like this.

Oh. _Oh._

 

+

 

To say that she’s thrown would be an understatement. Because of that, she waits. Makes them both wait, actually. Despite having raised the possibility of this with him, she hadn’t really been prepared for Matt to want to explore it. No, that’s not right. She hadn’t been prepared for him to want it like this. Or rather, when _he’s_ like this. And that’s probably a massive oversight on her part.

Of course Matt would just throw himself into the safety she represents without a second thought or single warning. He seems to think that she can handle anything that comes her way. (Which is flattering, sure, but not even close to the truth.)

So she insists that they eat dinner, not just because she’s hungry (which she is) but because she needs to give herself time to think. Wants to give him time to be less…overwhelmed. They’ve never done anything like this before, and she wants him to be calmer before… Aww, hell, before she throws herself into this thing with him. (Just because she isn’t always as competent as she appears doesn’t mean she won’t give it a try.) (And it’s not as if she hasn’t prepared for it, but still…)

Claire looks up from her plate, takes the time to look at Matt. Not just to evaluate the bruising around his eyes or the swelling around his nose, but to really _see_ him.

He looks…tired. His eyes are closed behind his glasses, his shoulders are slumped, hair in disarray. He’s stripped off his tie, undone his collar. There are lines of weariness on his face that she’s never seen before, but maybe that’s just because he’s decided he doesn’t need to front around her. (Or at least, there’s no more point to it tonight.) Under the table, one of his feet rests between hers, assurance that she is close enough to touch.

He looks like a guy who’s had a bad day. Just that. (If one discounts the brawlers’ marks across his face.)

She reaches across the table, slides her fingers across the back of his hand. “Wanna beer? I mean, that’s a thing you do, right? Go out for beers with your friends after a crappy day at the office?”

He looks…pleasantly surprised. “Have I never told you about Josie’s?”

She takes that as a “yes” on the beer. “No, actually. Is there something to tell?” It’s a short trip to the fridge and back. The bottle makes a distinctive sound against the table as she sets it down next to Matt’s plate. (She doesn’t try to open it for him, but her own does the _crack!hsss_ routine.)

He makes a face, an amused, lopsided wince. “It’s not…it’s not something I can really just _tell_ you about.” He follows suit, opening his bottle and taking a sip. “It’s something you need to _experience._ ”

 

+

 

They eat dinner. They clean up from dinner. Or rather, Claire makes Matt sit down at the table with a second beer to keep her company while she cleans up. They chat easily about dive bars, and greasy food at cheap cafes at two in the morning, about whether stale coffee is worse than burned… They’ve never spoken much about whether or not he has an enhanced sense of taste; she assumes he does, but it hasn’t come up, and that’s not the conversation they need to have right now.

So, when she’s done cleaning up (which isn’t hard since everything came from a deli counter), she comes over and swipes the beer from his hand (which, she supposes is a generous move on his part) and takes a long sip before handing it back. He hesitates before raising the bottle to his lips again and she has to ask, “Can you taste me?”

And he…well, his reaction is gratifying. He lowers the bottle and touches his tongue to his bottom lip. “It’s…uhh…it’s harder with glass, but…yeah.”

 _Interesting…_ But information best saved for later. She shakes herself free and wraps her hand around Matt’s wrist. “Let’s, umm… Let’s talk.”

“Uhh…okay. What are we talking about?”

“Date night surprise number two.”

 

+

 

They settle on the couch, mirroring each other. (They’re facing, their legs drawn up, knees close enough to touch, arms draped along the back of the couch, fingers tangled in a loose embrace.) The bag containing date night surprise number two sits on the coffee table, and while Matt seems curious, he hasn’t tried to find out what the surprise is.

“So. How are you feeling? How was work?”

Matt shrugs, a half-hearted – and silent – response.

“Wow. That bad, huh?” He’s usually honest with her about how much pain he’s completely disregarding. Which means what’s bothering him is something else. (And she’ll be waiting forever if she waits for him to bring it up.) “Look, I know you have some kind of deep philosophical belief that doing things the easy way is morally wrong, but are you really going to make me play twenty questions? Or can we agree that something’s wrong and maybe together we can make it better?”

“Are you giving me a choice?” His face looks tired, and faintly amused, and resigned, all at the same time. (Like he’d known she was eventually going to get around to asking about his enthusiastic welcome home but he’d hoped she’d forget.)

She reaches out and brushes the fall of hair across his forehead to the side. “No. Is it the swelling?”

Her question makes the slight expression of ease on his face fade, despite the comfort they clearly both find from what’s almost become a ritual between them. She strokes his cheek again, trying to bring it back; though he leans into it, the new, pensive expression doesn’t go away. He aims his face away from her (as if there’s something shameful in revealing weakness), but he nods.

“It’s bad?” She keeps her hand outstretched, an invitation (an offering) hovering close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin, the almost non-existent scrape of stubble, but doesn’t touch. A reminder that he’s not alone.

“I couldn’t…” He turns his face back so that his lips brush against the inside of her wrist. (And there’s a hint of his earlier desperation in the motion.) “You smell like the hospital.” A frustrated look crosses his face at her soft sound of impatience. Like he’s not avoiding the question; like she’s missing something that should be obvious. “You came home from work. You always smell like the hospital when you come home from work. So you must smell like the hospital.”

 _Oh._ That chain of logic sounds far too practiced. “You haven’t been working that out for everything all day, have you?” What is she even asking? Of course he has. It explains his greeting, his need when she’d walked in the door, the way he’d put her hands over his ears… “How do you not have the world’s biggest headache all the time?”

He shakes his head, a very slight back and forth motion. “It’s not like what you’re imagining.”

She’s imagining a lot of things. She’s imagining being caught up the frenetic chaos of the ER with it’s monitors and sirens and shouts and PA broadcasts, and not having a break from that. She’s imagining Gepetto’s workshop with it’s hundreds of clocks. She’s imagining having to listen to everyone’s TVs and radios and video games all at the same time. She’s imagining what it’d be like to never experience a moment of silence. (She’d joked once that she’d want to hit people too if she experienced the world the way he did.) (It wouldn’t take the full experience.)

“Will you tell me?” And she knows Matt; it’s not the amount he hears that’s bothering him right now, but the reduction of it. (Because he’s hypervigilant at the best of times, and even more so when he’s injured.) “You talk about hearing heartbeats, and broken bones, and radios from blocks away. Isn’t it a relief _not_ to hear those things sometimes?” And this is probably a question she should have asked before now, that a responsible health care provider would have gone into. (Trusting him to tell her if there’s something wrong is a dicey game, but one she plays for the sake of their relationship.) (If they’re going to work she has to _trust_ him.) (But it’s honest curiosity too. Matt’s a marvel and she wants to know him inside and out.)

“I don’t hear those things all the time. I’m not…” He squeezes her fingers and she returns the pressure. “I hear more than you do, but my brain is still…it still processes a lot of information the way yours does, for the most part. I think. There’s things that you can hear that would surprise you if you ever paid it any attention. But the brain filters out some things as irrelevant. The sound of your own heartbeat, or the second hand of a clock in the next room, the hum of florescent lights…”

“You’re talking about sensory adaptation.”

“Yeah.”

“But then why does _not_ hearing some things…wouldn’t you get used to that?”

He sighs and shifts around on the couch until he can rest his head on the back. It means she has to let go of his hand; it makes hers feel cold. “If you walked into a familiar room but didn’t see half the things you knew should be there, what would you think? Would you shrug and just carry on with your day or would you wonder if something was wrong?”

“I’d leave until you could come check it out with me.” The answer is easy, and almost feels natural (she has someone now who she can ask for help when she feels uneasy) (without feeling like she’s bugging them), and it makes Matt smile, truly smile.

“I don’t believe that for an instant.”

“I would. I’d call you right away.”

“And then keep me on the phone and ignore my advice while you did what you wanted anyway.”

Well. He might not be _entirely_ wrong, but he’ll sleep better if he believes her version of events. “Nope.” She raises her right hand as if taking an oath. “I’m getting used to this having a boyfriend thing. You are now solely responsible for making sure creepy places are actually creep-free.”

“I thought the gig was usually killing spiders and taking out the trash.”

There’s a lot of smart comments she could make, but there’s a relaxed ease in his shoulders now and that faint smile that makes him look so (normal) (approachable) (jumpable) handsome is playing along the corners of his mouth. She doesn’t want to ruin that. So instead she leans in and brushes a gentle kiss against his lips. (She’s gone again before he can respond, but sometimes it’s fun to make _him_ sigh.)

“What was that for?” Matt sounds lazily content as his hand drifts over her knee. His fingers find the seam of her jeans and start tracing it back and forth, plucking idly at the way the fabric ridges and folds. And she is suddenly…just… _overwhelmed_ by _this_. By the feeling of being able to depend on someone like this. ( _This_ is so many things – someone who would try to kill spiders for you, who’d stay on the phone with you when you’re feeling uneasy, who is already in your home doing their own thing when you get home; it’s shared meals, and hugs, and…)

His head tilts a little and he focuses hard in the direction of her chest, and he must think he’s done something wrong because he pulls his hands away and leans forward and frowns like he’s going to apologize for something any moment. So she kisses him again, the same, tender motion as before, but this time she waits for him to reciprocate. Follows after him as he leans back against the couch and shifts with him as he folds her into a loose embrace.

“Claire?” His voice is deep, and rumbly, and uncertain; his heartbeat is slow and strong. She presses her ear a little closer to his chest and closes her eyes as his hand strokes over her hair. “I’m sor–”

“I’d forgotten what this is like.” She cuts him off before he can finish the apology.

“What what’s like?” He still sounds like he thinks he should feel guilty for something. (Also sounds like he’s having a hard time working up any guilt while her entire body is telling him it’s unnecessary.)

“Not being alone.” Being alone and being lonely aren’t the same thing, but she thinks Matt understands. (He presses his lips against her forehead and holds on a little tighter.) (The message is the same one she’s been sending.) (“You’re not alone.”)

 

+

 

They stay like that long enough for Claire’s back to start protesting her awkward slant across his lap. (Long enough for them both to regain some composure.) She gets up and makes herself something hot to drink while Matt disappears into the bedroom and comes back out wearing the clothes he’d went to bed in the night before. He stops at the kitchen table, hand hovering uncertainly over the stack of folders resting on top of his laptop, but he follows her back into the living room; settles far enough away that he can pull her feet up into his lap for a rudimentary massage. (She thinks it’s more for his own benefit than hers; he has restless hands.)

“So. Next question.” Now that she knows part of the problem, they can start working on solutions. “Have you done any meditating yet, or are we still relying on the basics of Western medicine?” She’d been pretty dubious about the whole thing the first few times he’d talked about it, but she’s had time to see it make a difference for him. More than her oxytocin/cuddling subterfuge. (Well, that’s not entirely true. Matt’s more than a body after all; the cuddling is for the other parts of him.)

“No. I… Maybe now that you’re here.”

“Me?” That should be charming. Maybe even sweet. But he’s too serious for someone trying to flirt, which means this is about something else.

“Yeah. It’s your apartment. You’d know if something’s…off.”

Claire doesn’t react to that. She very carefully, very _deliberately_ does not react to that. Because she doesn’t know how to. It’s not good enough, though. Matt sighs and pushes her feet off his lap so that he can get up and pace.

“You don’t like that. That I’m always listening for trouble.”

It’s an accusation, but not one directed at her. At least, she doesn’t think it is. But it gives her something to respond to. A chance to address something in him that he usually refuses to talk to her about. “You’re right. I don’t like the logic behind your reasoning.”

That stops him. Or at least makes him pause. “What does that mean?”

“It means I’d like you to sit down so we can talk. Maybe while you finish my foot massage?”

Matt laughs and runs his hands through his hair before propping his hands on his hips and sighing. But he gives in, comes and sits back down and she wastes no time slipping her feet back into his lap. As if that will keep him in place.

“So? Logic?”

She wonders if he’s asking if she thinks there’s a method to his madness. (If that’s something he wonders about himself.) “I get why you came here, that it means you needed to anticipate less. And, you know, I’m here. Which is nice.” Matt doesn’t say anything. “You’re supposed to agree with me now.”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Mmm…smartass. But what I’m trying to say is that, while the likelihood of someone attacking us here is slim to none, past events don’t entirely rule out the possibility. Which sucks. But there you are. Besides. It’s not all bad. Creep duty is part of your job description, remember?”

Matt’s eyes are as shuttered as they ever are (eyes pointed down, lids almost closed) as his hands fall still. He squeezes her toes, almost to the point of being uncomfortable. “Most people wouldn’t see that as a bonus.”

She wiggles her toes until his grip loosens. “Lucky you. Out of all the dumpsters in all the world you fell into mine.”

“Lucky me.” Matt slides out from under her extended legs, squeezes his body into the space between her body and the couch and rests his head against her chest. “You were right.”

“About what?” She lazily strokes her fingers against his temple, gently playing with his hair. “Not that I’m picky.”

“It’s nice to have someone at home.”

 

+

 

They stay like that for awhile. Claire knows that most of Matt’s doubts will go away with time. (If he gives himself time.) They haven’t done a lot of talking about his past relationships, but his impatience with himself, with his perceived faults, tells her… Well, it tells her she needs to sometimes be more explicit in her expectations of him (of them) than she’d normally be. Very little is easy with Matt. (Except for this, right now. Being in each other’s arms.) (This part has always been easy.)

Her fingers drift along his features, brushing over his brow, his jaw, his hairline. Ghosting over his cheekbone. Tracing the outer shell of his ear. She pauses her restless stroking when he turns into her light touch so that most of his ear is covered.

“Would it be too much or not enough?” She lays her hand flat, his ear left bare between her thumb and pointer finger. It was obviously just right earlier, but he’s calmed down. (It’s possible the simultaneous too much/not enough from before would have been less terrible than the stress from his day.)

Matt sighs heavily and starts to push himself up. “Honestly? Could go either way right now. But I should try to meditate and then get some more work done.”

She knows that Matt trusts her. To a point. And it’s a point that’s further than he trusts most people. She also knows that it’s not in his nature to test that without a little push. Considering what she’s about to suggest, she lets him go, allows him space as she reaches for the gift bag still sitting on the table. “Well…date night surprise number two might help with that.”

He takes the bag from her, cocks his head at weight of it. “So this one isn’t lacy either?”

“Maybe next time.” She watches as he reaches into the bag and pulls out a pair of headphones. His expression is…bemused.

“Headphones? Are we watching something?”

“Um. Not exactly.” Claire pulls her phone out of her pocket and selects a media file she’d had created just for him. “It goes with this.” The sound of her heartbeat, looped to keep going, plays from the small speaker.

(There’s other sounds she could have chosen. Babbling brooks and ocean waves and whatnot. But she doesn’t know what kind of “nature sound” he’d find soothing.) (Though, in her defense, heartbeats are natural.)

She’s watching him intently, a little nervous about how he’ll take it. And for the first few seconds he keeps looking slightly confused. But then his brows furl and he touches her inner wrist lightly. “Is this you?”

“You can’t tell?”

He shakes his head. “It’s a recording. But you sound anxious. Like this is personal.” He wraps his hand around her forearm. “Why?”

“I, um. I’ve had time to think since the last time we did this. Sensory deprivation as therapy has some merit, but generally for things like addictions. Processing disorders. So I decided that maybe silence is the wrong way to go. With you. If you want to do this.”

“And the headphones?”

“They’re noise canceling.” He makes a face and she hurries to explain before he can protest about the amount of money he thinks she’s spent. Or complain about the buzz common to lower end versions. “They’re good ones. One of my cousins has a girlfriend who’s a tech writer and she gets samples of all sorts of electronic shit, and she did an article comparing a bunch of high end brands for these things, which is actually what I used for reference –”

“Hey.” He reaches out, brushes his fingers against her cheek. “Why do you think this will help?”

Even though Matt seems interested in her reasoning, she can’t help but feel slightly nervous. (He’d said he’d wanted to explore this with her. He’d _said_ that.) “There’s a couple of reasons.”

“Lay it out for me.” He sets the bag, and the headphones aside. Takes her phone from her and sets that aside as well. “Argue your case.”

“We don’t have to –”

“That’s not what I’m saying.” His lips brush against her forehead. “I like knowing how you think.”

“I think experiencing silence would be difficult for you. And I think it’d be even harder for me to achieve. If I could achieve it at all.”

“That is an excellent point.” He settles back in, a warm, steady presence at her side. “Next reason?”

“You have trouble shutting things out, sometimes. That’s just an observation. And I thought having a familiar sound to focus on…”

“To be fair. You picked one of my favorite sounds.” He’s slowly wrapping himself around her.

“Are you falling asleep?”

“Nope. Gonna get up in just a minute. Just had a long day.”

“You did. If you’re falling asleep, I’m going to go take a shower.” She carefully sits up, giving Matt time to move around her.

“Maybe I’ll join you.” He sprawls into the space she’s just vacated, as if searching out the warmth she left behind.

“Maybe.” But as she snags a pillow from the other end of the couch she kind of doubts it. “Lift up. You need to keep this elevated still.” Her hand gently cups his skull and lifts it until she can slide the pillow underneath. Then she reaches for her phone to turn it off, but Matt takes it from her hand.

“Leave it.” He lays his palm over it possessively, trapping it against the couch cushion. “Gonna meditate.”

“Thought you were going to join me in the shower.” The way he purses his lips and frowns in lieu of response is almost adorable. So Claire ruffles his hair and stands up. On a normal night Matt spends much less time sleeping than she does. (She likes to maintain an average of nine hours, while he’s closer to five or six.) But a nap certainly isn’t going to hurt him. And if she gets in the shower now, she’ll have time before she needs to go to bed to hang out while he meditates, since he indicated that’s something he’ll need this time. (He probably will spend part of the night working, but his body needs rest while it repairs himself. He goes into work later than she does, so even if he stays up until…)

Claire gets into the shower and lets other, more practical thoughts distract her from the memory of Matt curling up with her phone like it was some kind of security blanket.

It’s a little harder to let go of the mingled hope and nervousness, but Claire’s a practical kind of girl. She lets the hot water loosen her up while her brain calms itself down by making plans.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this was rough. I thought it was going to go one way, fought with that for a month or two, and then discovered that the story wanted to go another way entirely. I feel like the chapter is still pretty rough, but I figure I'll get it smoothed out sooner or later. It is part of the plan to edit the story as a whole when it's finished.
> 
> Anyway, I figured no one would mind if I went ahead and posted the chapter, rough as I feel it is. The story should be more forthcoming from here on out.
> 
> Enjoy!

The apartment isn’t quiet. Not really. He can feel the vibrations of people moving through the apartment upstairs, can hear the lower register of their voices though not enough to make out the words. It’s still unnerving, but he’s never much paid attention to what Claire’s neighbors talk about. Besides, the slightly distorted sound of her heartbeat is still looping from her phone. It’s not the same as having Claire in the room – there’s a clear artificiality to it – but the way he responds to it is very real. (He’s relaxed, almost content.) (And he wants her.)

The couch is warm, and it’s Claire’s; the scent of her permeates fabric and stuffing. Between the two he’s able to keep taking deep breaths. Of course, he could always go join Claire in the shower. The thought teases at the slight amount of motivation he has left. It’s easy enough to imagine getting up, slipping into the steam-warmed bathroom, creeping in behind her. He knows what would happen if he did; she would extend a quiet welcome, linger with him until he was ready to get out…or until he indicated he was interested in something else.

(Which he is. Theoretically. They haven’t been together since that one night. Not the way he’d like them to be. But he’s still very conscious of Claire’s declaration that “sex is nice” just not particularly high on her list of priorities.) (He’s still trying to sort that one out. Mainly by waiting for her to initiate something.)

It’s easier to tell himself that he _could_ join Claire than it is to run through the litany of reasons why he shouldn’t. (Won’t.) (Besides not wanting to appear like he’s pressuring her into something he barely has the energy for.) There’s so many other good reasons to stay put. Like the ebb and flow of anxiety through her body over the last hour.

He doesn’t get it. Claire takes _so_ much in stride. Even when she’s scared – and deservedly so – she’s…articulate. Being a witness to her uncertainly is unnerving. (And, kind of endearing, considering she hadn’t started stammering until she’d brought up the headphones.) (He thinks he gets it though; Claire’s honest, but she enjoys revealing personal things – _truly_ personal things – about as much as he does.)

Or maybe they’re just back to her being uneasy with the bundle of potential mayhem that lurks inside him.

(That’s not the case. He knows it, is maybe even starting to believe it. Can hear the sincerity in her voice and body every time she addresses the issue.)

But this matters to her for some reason. (The heartbeat and the headphones and his vulnerability.) It makes her nervous but determined at the same time. And as much as he doesn’t understand it, he trusts that she’ll explain anything she thinks needs it. (He’s already made up his mind to follow wherever she leads.) (No, hasn’t just made up his mind; he needs it. Needs to be given the focus and clarity that he’s lacked all day, since she rolled out of bed.) (For him this is still marginally about needing to meditate and creating not just an environment that’s safe to do it in, but a mindset that will let him. But it’s also about satisfying a craving, about meeting her in a place where he can safely indulge his need to consume everything she’s offering without it hurting her in return.)

He tells himself to calm down. There’s every chance that this – whatever the hell he should be calling this – won’t work. (It’s been a long time since he’s felt this way, even longer since it hasn’t included a haze of guilt on the horizon for choosing this feeling over all the things that should matter more to him.) (He’s never thought he could have this without sacrificing something else to have it.) That it’ll probably be more endurance than euphoria. Or that it will be merely nice instead of consuming. Or that his enjoyment of whatever it turns out to be won’t be enough to stand up to what he hoped it would.

(Claire hoped it would help him settle enough to meditate. If she’s right, that’ll be enough for now.) (And honestly, it’d be the safest result by far.)

Matt settles himself more comfortably into the couch and tries to focus on nothing more than the sound of Claire’s heart and the fall of water in the bathroom, trying to let his expectations fall away before she’s done. She’s nervous enough; there’s no need to let his…personality…make this more difficult for her than it clearly is. She’s already given him so much. He should be careful of wishing for too much more. Better to entertain a few last idle thoughts of joining her in the shower…

 

+

 

Claire is still nervous when she comes back out of the bedroom, but there’s a determination to her gait that hadn’t been there when she’d left the couch. Matt holds out a hand, inviting her back, indicating a willingness to participate in whatever it is that she has in mind. And he feels better about his choices when her fingers slide into his and her weight crushes the cushions at his side.

“Have a nice nap?” Her fingers comb through his hair, stroke the delicate skin along his hairline. She’s always so gentle with him (unless she needs to be rough to fix him up). He thinks back to her confession that she hates being one of the things that hurts him.

So despite the fact that he hadn’t slept, he answers the spirit of the question. “Yeah.”

“Are you tired? Do you want to go to bed? Or –”

“I don’t want to go to bed.” Even if _she’s_ not confident – and her heart does skip a couple of beats even if the motion of her hand stays fluid – he trusts her instincts. They’re the same ones that’ve kept him from bleeding out, that gave them the space to be more than intimate strangers bound by blood and bandages. He wants her idea of safety, even if he doesn’t know how to say it, or ask for it. Not that he needs to; her thoughts are clearly in the same place his are.

“Mmm…first things first, please. When’s the last time you took something for the inflammation?”

“Before I left the office.”

“Let’s fix that, hmm?”

“Whatever you say, nurse Temple.”

“I love it when you humor me.” Claire gets up, wanders into the bedroom and comes back. “Here.” She hands over two Tylenol and what’s left of her cup of tea. It’s too flowery for his taste – and cold on top of it – but he swallows the pills and hands the mug back, trying to keep his hands from shaking. (She’d take it the wrong way, wouldn’t view it as excitement.) (A sharp-edged anticipation that tries to prod him into injudicious action.)

“Now what?” He settles his arm under his head and reaches out and tucks his other hand under the waistband of her pajama pants, just to feel the steadying warmth of her skin.

“Now…I lead off with a disclaimer.” Her hands settle in her lap; he can hear the way she chafes them together. “I’ve never done this sort of thing _for_ someone before.”

Maybe he should have been less dismissive of her nerves. He’s so used to acting without fully comprehending his surroundings – and used to her accepting that about him – that he’d assumed this thing they’re calling “date night surprise number two” was a foregone conclusion. But this sounds a lot like reluctance.

“I mean, I’ve been on the other side of it. Of course. We’ve…well, we haven’t really talked about it –”

“Pillow cases,” he says absently while his heart starts pounding. What if after all of this buildup _Claire_ doesn’t want to do this?

“Yeah, pillow cases.” She swallows hard; her nerves are mounting again, and for no good reason. He _wants_ this, especially now. “However –”

He shakes his head a little and wets his lips. There’s no _however._ Not for him. “I trust you.” It’s true. More than true – it’s a fundamental law of his world, that Claire can be trusted. But his answer seems to frustrate her.

“I’m trying to be serious, Matt. I know you like to believe that you can handle anything, but I like to look before I leap.”

“That’s not always true.”

She exhales in a hard, sharp sound and straightens her back so that his palm no longer fits comfortably around the curve of her hip. “Whether or not you believe it to be true, I’m not going to do this with you until I know you’ve at least thought about what happens if it doesn’t…if it doesn’t go well.”

He pushes himself into an upright position, unknowingly preparing to fight for what he wants before he remembers that Claire isn’t someone he needs to fight. This isn’t something he can win or wrest away from her control. If he’s going to get what he wants, it’s going to have to be through appealing to the things that she holds sacred: honesty and trust.

“Okay. So let’s talk about what happens if it doesn’t go well.” Whatever that means. “What’s the worst thing that could possibly happen?” Because on the surface she seems to be worrying about his ability to remove a pair of headphones if he decides he doesn’t want to wear them. Which is too preposterous to be true, so her concerns must lay elsewhere.

The sound of Claire’s heart trips along at an accelerated rate and she’s breathing in short, hard little motions. He wants to take her hands in his so she’ll stop squeezing them so tightly, wants to pull her into his arms so she’ll relax, wants to press her back into the couch cushions and press his hand close to her heart so that he can feel as well as hear the responses of her body. Instead he crosses his legs and tries to keep from fidgeting; she’s always the one to wait him out, but this time he’s determined to beat her at her own game.

“Worst case scenario…” Her voice, when she finally speaks, is low and soft, but composed. “Worst case scenario, you agree to do this with me because I raised the subject when you were too…unsettled…to disagree with me and you end up enduring something you dislike for no other reason than you think it’ll make me happy.”

Well, that strikes a little too close for comfort, but she doesn’t really know. Isn’t really aware of how he wouldn’t just break himself for Hell’s Kitchen and be glad for it, but he’d do it for her. (He knows enough to keep his mouth shut about it though.) But she has to recognize the circumstances, even if she doesn’t realize the depths he’ll sink himself for her. (This time it’s for her. But he’s always been eager to please, a trait he can’t seem to wipe away.) “Remember that morning, after you stayed over? And we had our first not-a-fight about this? Remember what I said?”

And thank God, but it seems he managed to stumble over the right thing to say. Claire’s body relaxes, or at least becomes less agitated. “You said you wanted to understand my definition of safety.”

Which he has, to some degree. Just the thought of her hands settling over his ears and blocking out the half-formed world around him wouldn’t have been enough to drive him from the office if he hadn’t. “And what did I do when you came home?” To encourage her thoughts in the right direction, he reaches over and claims one of her hands, carefully sliding his fingers between hers when she doesn’t pull away. “Claire?”

“You took my hands and…” Her voice trails off but her fingers squeeze his, as if the remembered intimacy is too much for her. (And this is what he loves about Claire, that intimacy isn’t just adrenaline and sex and the rush of trying to find limits to break. It’s also about gentleness and recovery and falling asleep together.)

“I want this, Claire.” He pulls her hand to his mouth and gently lips along her knuckles. “Whatever this is. I want it tonight.” Tonight when he can find some measure of peace. “I want it tomorrow.” Wants the sound of her heart captured in his phone so that if (when) the dimmed sounds of the office become too much to anticipate he can put in his earbuds and filter everything through the sounds of her. “I wanted it when it was too much and not enough at the same time.” He presses a kiss to the delicate skin inside her wrist and grins. “I want it when I think about being with you, about your thighs pressed tight to my ears while I –”

Claire laughs while his sense of her flares into brighter awareness. She pulls her hand away, but keeps it tucked close to her body, like his touch is something she brought away with her. “I think I get the picture.”

He leans back into the couch, tries not to get distracted by the faint tang of her on his lips. “I mean it though. You know that, right? That this isn’t just because you suggested it and I’m too tired to fight off your feminine wiles.”

“What wiles would those be? I haven’t even broken out the lace yet.”

“More’s the pity.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face. “If you’re hesitating because _you_ don’t want to do this, I can wait.” Doesn’t really want to, but pressuring her to engage with him against her will won’t get him what he wants. At least not in any way that will bear repeating.

“You’ll be honest with us both about whether or not you like it?” He nods and while she bites her lip and breathes deeply for several seconds, Claire eventually nods in return. “Okay. Let’s try this.”

 

+

 

“Claire.” She’s triple-checking the locks on the doors. And the windows. Maybe it’s good they’re not trying this at his place, though he’s curious to know how she’d deal with the rooftop door. “Claire.” It doesn’t really have a lock; he depends on the creaks and moans of the steps to tell him if anyone comes in that way. “Claire.” Maybe she’d build a barricade – she’s certainly in the mood to try it. And paying him no mind as she goes to check the windows again.

This time he catches her around the waist from behind and pulls her back against him. “I think the windows are as locked as they’re going to get.” He presses his forehead to her shoulder, turns his head slightly and ghosts his lips against her neck. _Focus here_. He does it again as she stills and lets some of her weight fall back against him. “All a lock is really going to do is slow someone down.”

It shouldn’t be the right thing to say; it’s such a stark reminder of how differently they view the world. For him safety is an easily shattered illusion. But Claire huffs and concedes the point.

“Fine. How do you want to do this, then?”

_Yes._ Finally. A shiver runs through him, leaving him pleasantly light-headed and heat pooling in his gut. He can’t help but rub himself against her; a low, throaty chuckle vibrates through her. “Is that for me or the headphones?” she asks.

“Both.” He wouldn’t be doing this with anyone else. He might have had a couple of girlfriends who suggested it – might have had one particular girlfriend who hadn’t spoken to him for a week when he’d denied her the pleasure (punishing him had gotten boring after that) – but Claire’s the only one he trusts with _this._

He doesn’t know how to tell her that, either. So he tightens his arms around her a little more securely and folds his body around her to the best of his ability and just…holds on for awhile. “Claire…” Lets the calming strength of her tease his own body into something like peace, at least enough to allow his usual control come to the forefront instead of the adolescent adrenaline junkie he never quite left behind.

“So you do want this, hmm?” She reaches back and cups his face.

He pulls away reluctantly. “You believe me now?”

“I’m starting to. Though I’m not sure it makes me feel any more confident.”

He’s about to ask if she’s ever reckless, if she ever does anything without considering the costs beforehand. But he knows the answer to that. (The fact that he’s alive _is_ the answer to that.)

“You’re not doing this alone.” The reminder is the best he can do.

“No. I’m doing it with the man without fear.” Her voice is dry and lightly mocking, though not necessarily directed at him. Apparently the papers have been talking about him again. (Claire does not approve of his exploits being…exploited.)

“Foggy hasn’t read me that article yet.”

“It was something I heard on the radio today during a break.” She sighs and walks over to the couch. “You’re going to try to meditate?”

“Yeah.” He cracks his neck and rotates his shoulders, trying to loosen in up preparation as he wanders over to her. He should have tried to meditate last night, but laying beside Claire (or in her arms) had been about as much as he could take. Even now her warmth is a lure that’s hard to resist. His hand trails up her spine and settles at the nape of her neck. Her skin is like living satin under his hand, her hair like silk against the back. There’s tension in her that he’d rub away if he could, but is unlikely to dissipate until he can prove he won’t crumble under the weight of the headphones she got for him.

Headphones he takes from her now. They’re fairly heavy, and if he remembers his previous experiences with them correctly, they’ll give off a buzz that’s almost physical. But as he said to Claire, sensory adaptation is a thing, and surely the hum can be borne as long as everything else is her.

“You want to try those on?” She plays with the end of the cord like it’s the string on a hoodie.

“You want to plug them in?”

“One step at a time, please.”

Matt sighs, but it’s hard to get impatient when it’s clear that she’s making compromises for him with her own innately cautious judgment. She circles around while he settles the band over his head. The room immediately shrinks to a little over an arm’s breath away, the inferno of his perceptions dimming to mainly heat and a lingering awareness of where his body is in her space. Claire’s breath strikes his face lightly; she’s probably standing in front of him, eyes watching for any sign that he’s being too stoic for her tastes. But the headphones are surprisingly comfortable for their weight. The band isn’t too tight. The padding fits well around his ears without pressing uncomfortably on anything.

“Well?” As if to prove him right about the quality of the headphones, her voice is muffled to a degree that makes him uncomfortable. She sounds further away instead of close enough to be swallowed by.

“It’s a good fit.” He takes them off and the room expands around him again. “Where can I sit where I’ll be out of the way?”

Claire’s apartment is not large; unlike his own apartment, floor space is at a premium. It takes her a minute but she eventually settles him in a corner. His back is against the outside wall, the living room to his left and her bedroom to the other side of the wall to his right.

“Okay. If this turns into too much –”

“It’s not going to be too much.”

“But if it were to be, you’ll take the headphones off and we’ll figure out something else. Right?”

“Yes, mom.”

She smacks him lightly on the back of the head; he doesn’t try to dodge it, just accepts it as payment for being smart. And she softens the blow by cupping the side of his face and stroking her thumb over his cheek. “Don’t be a jerk. You said it yourself, you haven’t done this before either.”

He leans into her hand and nods. (They’re so close to this. It’d be stupid to mess it up now.) “Yes, ma’am?”

“Slightly better.” Her hands pull away and he can feel her tugging at the cord again, through this time the recording of her heartbeat starts looping through the headphones, the sound dulled by distance. “When you’re ready, go ahead and turn the noise canceling on.” She taps the right headphone and waits for his fingers to find the switch she means. “Okay?”

“Did you try them?” The question catches her off guard but he’s curious. The answer could go either way with same effect on her current attitude.

“Of course I did.”

Of course she did. Suggesting anything less is probably tantamount to suggesting she was neglectful. Matt feels his lips sliding into a lopsided smile as he settles more comfortably in the corner. As he lets his body fall into the familiar posture of meditation he turns that smile up at her. “Stop worrying.”

 

+

 

Claire hadn’t answered. She’d just taken a step back like eight inches was enough to make him believe she wasn’t hovering. But Matt had ignored that. He’d learned meditation under tougher scrutiny than Claire’s. Not that he’d gotten right down to it either; he’d muted the recording and kept his hands resting on his knees. Had concentrated on his breathing, his posture, the tension in his muscles. (Had learned pretty quickly that if he was going to have any hope of actually meditating that he was either going to have to breathe through an open mouth or learn to deal with being slightly dizzy.)

But the pretense had become real enough after awhile, enough so that Claire’s eventual movement away from him just…happened, the soft impact of her feet on the floor fading gradually along with the flickering corona of heat put off by her body.

In some ways this meditation is lot like the rare times he’d done it while living in the dorms at Columbia. It’s not deep, isn’t something he can truly lose himself in. It’s more like a light nap, something he cycles up out of periodically so he can assess his surroundings before getting back to it.

It’s during one of those surfacing times that he realizes Claire has moved on, convinced that he isn’t going to panic or drop immediately into flight or fight mode. Since he’s mostly convinced of the same, he doesn’t take any more precautions. (He’d only waited to make sure that if it took him a few minutes to adjust that he’d have that time before Claire swooped in.) He adjusts the volume, slowly making it louder. (And louder still.) Holds his breath a little as the sound of Claire’s heart fills his ears completely, the relaxed thuds carrying a realistic resonance thanks to the headphones.

This is…nice. Maybe not as earthshaking as he’d hoped, but good. Perhaps part of the problem is the issue he’s been facing all day; he’s more aware, with the headphones on, that there are other things he should be hearing. The hush of her lungs expanding and contracting, her occasional swallow, the myriad sounds of a working, living body. They’re in her apartment so the scent of her is all around them, but he’s not sure what would have happened if they’d tried this somewhere else. There’s a fine line between awareness and immersion, and…

(And he turns on the noise canceling part of the headphones, not really hoping for it to help much, considering it’s already hard to hear anything else, but…)

(But…)

(But his heartbeat settles into the guiding tempo of hers.)

(But the pulse of blood through his veins is apparent and ambiguous at the same time until it’s so easy to believe that what he feels is his body pressed up against hers.)

(But his jaw drops slightly, not to accommodate easier breaths but because he’s simply…slack-jawed. But his head tilts back and rests against the wall.)

(But his awareness of Claire slips into a nebulous concept, like the warmth and wood wax and incense of a sanctuary, like the moment before a kiss, like childhood memories of Christmas morning…)

(But…but…)

 

+

 

The floor by his knee vibrates. Matt ignores it. He is… He is…

(He’s drifting, barely conscious of the weight of his body or the movement of his lungs.)

The floor vibrates again, repetitively, separated by pauses. Like someone knocking on a door.

His senses come back to him slowly. (Reluctantly.) There’s a mass of body heat in front of him and he can smell…cocoa butter.

_Claire._ He wets his lips and breathes deeply, tasting for her on the air. (Lotion and soap and shampoo and cotton and her skin, right in front of him.) _Claire._

She’s rapping her knuckles against the floor, trying to get his attention. He can feel it now, the difference between the beat in his ears and the body before him. With one hand (slow to respond to his commands) he reaches up to turn off the sound canceling; with the other he reaches for Claire. The tips of his fingers skim over the outside of her knee. The heat of her sinks into him and he can’t help it; his neck arches back and he lets out a long sigh. (A happy, peaceful, needing sigh.)

She moves around him. The headphones slide back, away from his ears but aren’t taken away.

“Guess I was worried for nothing.” Claire’s sounds fondly amused.

_Yeah_. She was. But he’s having a hard time voicing anything, so he lets the tips of his fingers explore along her skin as he tries to find his voice again.

“You put your lotion on,” he finally manages to say.

“Well, you’ve been at this for two hours and I had to get ready for bed.”

Two hours? It feels like seconds and days at the same time. “I hadn’t realized.”

“Mmm…” She rises from her half-crouch. “I just wanted to let you know I was going to bed.”

“Okay.” His hand wraps around the back of her knee, urging her forward half a step. If he straightens, he can (and does) rest his head against her belly. A great deal of his face still hurts, but her curves are soft and giving and he nuzzles into them carefully. “Foggy made Karen think I broke my nose while I was eating you out.”

She stills under his touch, surprised, either by his words or their meaning. (He thinks the words register first, because the scent of her turns musky and slick.) He pulls the headphones free entirely before wrapping his free hand around the back of her other leg. She doesn’t resist the touch but neither does she move any closer. “Claire?”

“Still trying to figure out if that was supposed to be flattering or an insult.”

His fingers find the hem of her sleep shorts. (And they’re short indeed. Barely enough to trap the humidity rolling off her.) “I’m pretty sure it was supposed to be embarrassing so I’ll stop coming into work with broken bones.”

“Well, there’s at least one way to get rid of any reason to make excuses for broken bones.” And that, Matt knows, is the closest she’ll come to criticizing his decision to keep Karen in the dark about things.

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” He tugs on her legs, both gratified and frustrated (the good kind of frustrated) when she only takes another half step forward. “I do have a question I’m interested in the answer to, though.”

“I’m sure you do.” This time she shuffles forward on her toes under the insistent pressure of his hands. Her feet come to a rest to either side of his knees. “What’s the question?”

“Yes or no, Claire?” He slumps against the wall which slides his hips back so that they rest between her feet.

“You have a broken nose.”

“That wasn’t an option.” Not that he technically _needs_ an answer; she blooms in front of him like an exotic flower, heat and scent and humidity and the pulse that rolls through her from heart, throat, wrists, thighs… (He needs an answer all the more for those reasons, because he can see her reactions but not her face.) “Please, Claire.” He wants to feel even closer to her than he does, like he does when it’s just the two of them with no distractions.

“You can’t possibly be serious. If your nose isn’t broken already it might end up that way.”

“I can make it so soft and sweet for you, Claire.” He wets his lips, knows she saw it when her pulse starts to race. “I want to know what your heart sounds like while you watch me pleasure you.”

Her low groan makes him grin, makes him confident enough that his fingers slide upwards to cup her bottom. He’s strong, it doesn’t take much to lift her up onto her toes. (Barely onto her toes; a little further and he’d have her off her feet entirely, but he doesn’t trust himself to balance her that way.) (Especially if she starts to squirm.) “Claire? Yes or no?”

The sound of her palms hitting the wall behind his head is half an answer. Her whispered, “Yes,” is the rest of it.

 

+

 

He plays with her, not to tease…well, maybe to tease, but not to torment. And Claire doesn’t protest, not when he slides her shorts down her legs, not when he cups the hollow heat of her in his palm, not when he gently pulls and plucks at the lips guarding her sex. What she does do is sigh, and shift on her feet, and attempt to take controlled breaths that do nothing to slow the wild pulse fluttering against his cheek.

Where his lips meet her skin it is smooth, responsive, muscles trembling under the gentle nips and damp kisses he scatters across the softly rounded curve of her belly. She seems to like the bites; he sets teeth to skin as he slides his middle finger into her and is rewarded as she rises up on her toes and gasps softly.

He can’t believe he’d overlooked this the last time. He’d been so drunk on the sensation of skin on skin that he hadn’t even snuck a taste of her. Something he means to rectify.

“Claire, are you watching me?” He pumps his finger inside of her a few times before pulling it back, spreading her wetness across the hood of her clit. The moan trapped in her throat makes him smile. “That’s not an answer, Claire. I’m going to taste you now, and you need to watch.”

“You’re talking a lot for someone who has better things to do with his mouth.”

God, he loves her. Presses his grin to the damp flesh between her legs and breathes deeply. (She shakes around him, muscles straining as her weight shifts to the balls of her feet and her palms pressed against the wall.) “Watch me,” he murmurs against her. “Watch me.”

“I’m going…” She looses the train of that thought. (He helps her, with a long flick of his tongue.) “I’m…” He can feel her shifting weight around him, groans in approval as her knee comes to rest against his shoulder. A hand under her thigh helps reposition her so that her leg hangs down the length of his back. “Matt.”

He hums in acknowledgement and pulls her thigh as close to his ear as he can. He still wants to hear her, in every way. Wants to coax more of those low sounds of pleasure from her along with a stuttering heartbeat. Is tempted to draw this out, make her turn high-pitched and needy. But he’d promised her soft and sweet, so rather than pushing her he follows the cues of her body as he carefully eats her out. (When he plays with her clit she stiffens like a soldier at attention. When he laps, sucks, kisses at her slit the leg over his shoulder tenses, pulling him in. When he fills her with his fingers she leans into the wall and shakes like she’s fighting the need to thrust into his touch.)

Once again he’s surrounded by her, and it is perhaps less (intense) (consuming) (overwhelming) than before, but it’s also more…real.

It doesn’t take long. (Not nearly as long as he’d like.) But it is so very sweet, the way she comes undone. She pulls his head back (though not far enough away that he can’t keep his ear pressed to the pulse fluttering wildly in her thigh), presses her own fingers to her clit while her hips roll and hitch against his hand. The hand she presses to her mouth keeps her low sounds of pleasure muffled and contained.

He waits to move until her body stills, until her own hand falls away, until the fingers gripped in his hair relax.

“Claire?”

“Yeah?” She sounds out of breath, barely aware of what’s going on around them. (He thinks that’s what he’d sounded like when she’d pulled him from his meditation.)

“Don’t stop watching yet.” Only when he’s sure she’s watching does he slide his fingers out of her and sucks them into his mouth.

Claire makes a breathy, dismayed sound, and just sort of…collapses…into his lap, without any sort of grace or consideration for where she’ll end up. He has to snake an arm around her back to keep her from falling backwards entirely. It would’ve worked if she hadn’t grabbed him behind the neck and pulled. He lands on top of her, cradled between her sprawled legs as she starts dotting kisses over his face. No, not his face. Over his chin, his cheeks, nuzzling in at his lips.

He can’t help it; he gives her what she wants, letting her kiss him deeply. Thoroughly. Lets her have his way when she pushes at his shoulders. She follows after, pressing him into the floor. Clambers into his lap and presses herself into the erection under her.

“Wait.” He tears himself away with some difficulty. “Claire, wait.” This hadn’t really been his plan…not that he’d had a plan. Just a overriding need. “I didn’t mean –”

“I think it’s a little late to claim that.” But she shifts forward. Takes her weight off him and braces her hands to either side of his head. “What didn’t you mean?” Her body moves again, lowering, and her right hand starts tracing over his face. “Matt?”

“You said sex was nice,” he mutters, well aware of her breasts pressing against him, of his own body’s reaction that sex is more than just nice.

Her hand stills, like he’s caught her by surprise. “It is nice. That was nice. Know what else would be nice?” She nuzzles at his ear. “I’d like to keep watching.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. So, it's been awhile since we've seen an update. The back end of 2016 was pretty rough for me, personally, and I wasn't often in the right mindset to write this story between each occurrence of "if it's not one thing it's another." Not to mention having to explore some of the themes being raised in this fic in ways that I could DO in this fic. But! Here it is. Maximum fluff. Lots of exclamation points. Probably about 100% less smut than anyone was expecting, but _someone_ didn't want to cooperate. Probably 100% more healthy friendships than anyone was looking for. But it's a good solid chapter and I like it. I think you will too. :)

“That’s not…” Matt shakes underneath her, full-body trembles like he’s hypothermic. Except he’s deliciously warm. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know.” Pressing herself against him isn’t a conscious decision. The way she flattens herself against him is purely instinctive, fueled by his heat and the taste of salt on his skin. (She dots kisses over his neck and chest, because while she knows he’s not looking for anything as simple as reciprocation, that isn’t what this feels like.) (What it feels like is…) “I want this.”

He groans and she squirms a little closer, delighting in the length of him spread out under her. In the heat and the strength and the spread of his hands on her ass, which keep her squirms under something like control. “Wait. Claire…”

They should probably be having an actual conversation instead of this series of stilted protest and response muddled by the drag of her lips against his skin. The thought does occur to her, but it’s almost impossible to pull herself away. His arms wrap around her like he has no intention of letting her go ever, much less anytime soon…

It’s so hard. (No pun intended.) (Though, _that’s_ hard too.) Self-restraint is hard. He might be fully clothed, but his face is completely bare. Totally naked. And she wants to watch every single microexpression of pleasure flit over it as she helps him find his own completion.

However, _wait_ is not that far from being the same as _stop_ and as Claire’s blood settles some and her head starts to clear she can accept that. Even if she’s quietly amused by the fact that Matt seems to be questioning the authenticity of _her_ consent. (No. Maybe not amused. That warm, cared-for feeling is back in her chest, the one that reminds her she’s not alone.)

Their heavy breaths are the only sounds in the apartment as she reluctantly tears herself away from his neck. Oh, not entirely, she tucks herself in under his jaw and curls her arms around as much of him as she can reach, but her body slides enough to one side that she’s merely sprawled across him rather than straddling his hips.

“Mmm…” She wets her lips, tastes the remnants of him. Of herself. “Am I pushing?”

“No.” He answers very quickly, though there’s something in his tone… It’s so much harder to tell when her body seems to be in sync with his. But she understands the difference between feeling physical arousal and the desire to do something with it.

She props herself up on one elbow and looks down at him. All that open, honest, unguarded emotion is tucked away again behind a warm but neutral expression. The moment lost. But she can’t bear to lose the rest. (And “the rest” encompasses so much, but really just means this nebulous sense of connection which they seem to have been chasing after all night.) So she presses a hard kiss against his forehead like it’s an unspoken vow, or a benediction that she can leave behind on his skin.

And then, because she’s still all warm and tingly with afterglow and he’s still holding her close, she trails a line of kisses down his jaw, ending with a light, lingering kiss against his unresisting mouth. She hovers there, lips nudging against his, breath trapped between them. Her fingers start to idly play with the short strands of his hair while she changes the angle of the kiss, seeking some sort – any sort – of response…

Her hair catches on the calluses on his hand as he cups the back of her neck. He’s still warm underneath her, but no longer trembling. Instead he’s like…bedrock.  

(There is a lesson she wants him to learn here, that affection is not something that has to be earned through filling momentary whims or passions. It’s a lesson she had to work out for herself the hard way, through multiple relationships, and she doesn’t want Matt to have to have to do that when she can just _show_ him.)

“What was that for?” he asks when she finally pulls away.

“Does it matter?” She presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I’d kind of like to do it again.” He turns his head to catch her lips but she ducks away, pressing another against his cheek. Behind his ear. Against the pulse in his neck. Down to the base of his throat…where she also stifles a yawn.

“Okay.” His hand strokes down her arm, fingertips pressing firmly into muscle like an abbreviated massage. “We need to get you into bed.”

“Oh, so all of a sudden my floor isn’t good enough for you?” Sadly he’s right though. If they’re not going to do anything else then she needs to get some sleep.

“I’ve been distracted.” His own lips find her forehead; he lets out a long sigh that ruffles her baby hairs. “Com’on.” He shrugs her off his fairly comfortable shoulder, which is…kind of rude, actually, and she glares at him a little bit. But then he does this thing, where he rocks back onto his shoulders and then throws himself forward to land on his toes, his body an arc of toned muscles and coordinated grace.

“Show off,” she mutters under her breath.

“Yeah.” He reaches down and she takes his hand, letting him pull her to her feet. “But you were still watching.”

 

+

 

It occurs to her as they lay in bed together – Matt’s down to just a single extra pillow to keep his head elevated and he’s snugged her back against his side in an almost proprietary manner – that they need to have the sex talk. Soon.

Well, her version of it, anyway. In previous relationships it’s the closest she’s ever come to outlining anything like rules or expectations for behavior. But her relationship with Matt has always been atypical for her in almost every other conceivable way, so this time it’s more like…

Her brain supplies the image of a Jenga tower. A precariously constructed and inadvisably tall Jenga tower.

She frowns and shifts closer to the warm body beside her, her own arm curving around him possessively. Matt had joked with her once that his fighting style was more about throwing himself at a problem until he wore it down. And it was an oversimplification of things…but not really incorrect either. Tenacity was something they shared. But…

(But she can’t entirely dismiss the fear that someday he’ll decide… That he might think their relationship works because he’s worn her down when what’s really happened is they’ve shaped their relationship around their existing rough spots.)

(She’s afraid because she feels like she’s laid down too many rules already, which will probably do her no favors in the reassuring-Matt-that-all-is-well department.)

Part of her knows she’s half asleep and that her thoughts aren’t only scattered but inching towards irrational as well. (Part of her is well aware that they’ve both walked away from the other before and that there are no guarantees in life and that making this work is going to take effort –)

Under the covers Matt’s fingertips slide under the elastic of her pajama bottoms and start rubbing back and forth over her hip. The motion is slow and repetitive, and soothing in its own way because she knows what he’s doing even if he probably doesn’t. Whether the motion is unconscious stimming or deliberately self-soothing, it shows an awareness of her presence. Which, in turn, quiets the uneasy thoughts tumbling through her mind as she focuses on the gentle sensation.

Eventually she falls asleep.

 

+

 

Matt rolls out of bed at…some point. He tries to be careful about it, but she wakes up enough to reach out and stop him.

“Hey.” His voice is soft enough to be part of a dream. “Go back to sleep.”

Yeah, yeah that sounds good. But. “Sex talk.”

“Excuse me?”

He’s no longer trying to get out of bed, so she scoots closer and tries to verbalize the thoughts tumbling through her half-asleep brain. “Us. Sex talk. Need to have one.”

“Right now?”

She thinks about it, but that’s going to require actually waking up. “No.”

He presses a kiss to her forehead and rubs her arm soothingly. “Then go back to sleep.”

“Yeah.” She wraps herself back up in the covers and…

 

+

 

The bed is empty when she wakes up to her alarm. Claire looks around the bedroom and shakes her head. She knows Matt doesn’t sleep much, but this is the first time he hasn’t been next to her when she’s woken up. Not that they’ve done this much. She can still count the number of nights they’ve spent together on one hand. And while it might be easier to get out of bed without the temptation of having him _right there_ …it’s nicer to have him close. Empirically safe and sound.

She stares at the empty space next to her, the rumpled pillowcase, tries not to be grumpy. With a yawn she rolls out of bed, snaps the covers back into place with quick, efficient motions, then starts to get ready for work.

When she walks into the kitchen the morning gets infinitely better. The coffee brewer is going and Matt sits at the table with his laptop, a stack of manila folders, and a mostly empty mug of his own.

“Morning.” His smile is slow and lazy, and enough to make her heart flutter a little. (As she walks by him for the coffee she pretends she doesn’t see that his smile gets a little smug.)

“You made coffee.” She pours herself a cup and grabs her creamer from the fridge.

“I know how to be a considerate guest.”

_Guest?_ She watches the creamer she splashes into her mug curl and cloud through the darkness of the coffee. But then, she’d taken unscented lotion to his apartment, so maybe she should put less emphasis on the words used and more on the results.

“Refill?” She grabs the coffee pot and her mug and sits down at the table across from him.

“Thank you.”

She refills his cup then takes a sip out of her own. He’s looking better. The bruises have receded, though not entirely. The swelling across the bridge of his nose and under his eyes has lessened considerably. But mostly he looks…relaxed. He’s not holding himself like he’s anticipating an unpleasant surprise.

“I want to examine your nose real quick,” she murmurs as she pushes herself up from the table.

“Oh, it’s not broken.” He sounds distracted, like he’s more focused on his work than on her. Which is fine. Because it means he doesn’t argue while she retrieves her kit from the bedroom and slips on a pair of gloves.

“Hey, gimme two minutes here.” She taps his shoulder and tucks a knuckle under his chin.

“I’m –”

“ – going to listen to the medical professional who keeps saving your bacon?” She tilts his head back, cups his face between her palms and carefully strokes her thumbs along the lower ridge of his eye sockets. “Hear anything?”

“No, Claire.” His right hand wraps around her forearm, just holding onto her while she conducts her examination.

“How about now?” She gently pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, sliding her fingers down and outward. His grip tightens a little at the discomfort but the answer stays the same.

“Lean back.” A hand on his chest indicates where she wants him to move his body. She clicks her penlight and checks for any obvious abnormalities along his nasal septum. “How’s the congestion? Clearing up, or staying the same?”

“It’s getting better.” He eases back into a sitting position as she pulls away.

“Hearing?”

“That too.”

She hums and strips her gloves off, the sounds of latex surprisingly loud in the early morning quiet.

“Well, what’s the official diagnosis?”

“I’d like to give it another day, see if the swelling keeps going down, but I’m reasonably confident that your nose is not actually broken.” She ruffles his hair and circles back around the table to her coffee. Takes a deep breath before broaching another potentially touchy subject. “You’re going home to change before going into the office?”

This time his smile is sweet and slightly confused. “Well…” He pulls at his earlobe as he considers his answer. “Foggy’s already…invested…? In the state of our –”

“Stop. Just stop.” She’s fine with Matt discussing their sex life with his best friend. Doesn’t necessarily want to hear about it, but it’s not like she hasn’t had those conversations in the past herself. “What I meant was…maybe you’d like to keep something here besides a pair of pajamas.”

She watches his mouth open; listens to the silence as that’s as far as he gets before closing it slowly. But she doesn’t take it back, though it is a bit beyond what she can manage to sit still and wait for an answer. “Toast?”

“No. Thank you.”

The kitchen is quiet while she quickly makes herself a fried egg sandwich to take with her. Matt sits without working as she moves back and forth, gathering her things, putting her sandwich together, sipping at a second cup of coffee. He’s charming when he’s rumpled and speechless.

“Why are you offering?”

Her hands pause in their work, but only briefly. “You can’t tell?”

“Only that your heart is beating harder.”

Well. He’s gotten better about drawing conclusions. “What about yours?”

That self-aware half-smile she loves so much brings his dimples out of hiding. Probably as much of a confession as she’s going to get. “It’s… It’s a big step.”

It is and it isn’t. In any other relationship it might be. Maybe it seems bigger than it should because it proves that this thing they’re building together is happening in the greater world, makes it more real. But if staying over is a thing they’re going to start doing, and it seems like it is, then, “It’s silly for you to have to go home to change before going to work.” It doesn’t have to be much. A clean shirt or two. A tie. A suit could be worn more easily twice in a row than some things.

“Just think about it.” She wraps her sandwich in a napkin and circles the table to drop a kiss on his forehead. Matt has other plans, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her close for a lingering kiss that makes her wish once again that she’d woken up beside him in bed. “Mmm… I’ll see you tonight.”

“So sure about that?” His nose brushes along her cheek as if he can’t quite bear to let her go. Since he’s still on the inactive list his overwrought sense of obligation won’t have him skulking the docks and alleys. So really, seeing him tonight is more or less a foregone conclusion. Still, she can play along.

“You haven’t brought back my big gym bag. Your _other_ suit is stuck here until you do.”

He laughs in appreciation of her cleverness before giving her another quick kiss and a pat on the rear. “See you tonight.” She’s halfway out the door when he calls after her, “Send me that file!”

Her smile gets her all the way to work.

 

+

 

“You’re preoccupied today.”

Claire blinks herself back to her surroundings, stops drawing patterns in her soup with her spoon, and looks up at Shoshona inquiringly. “How’d you guess?”

“You’re not eating.”

Ah, yes. The two rules of nursing. Eat when you can, and sleep when you can.

It’s been a relatively quiet day, enough so that she’s been able to take an actual lunch break and not just an attempt to gulp down a granola bar and a bottle of water. Except she hasn’t made much progress with the soup, just like she hasn’t made much progress with the circular nature of her thoughts.

Sho sits down with her own bowl of soup from the cafeteria, crumbles an obscene amount of crackers into it and says, “Spill it. If you’re not going to eat you might as well talk.”

“Talk, hmm?”

“If it’s got _you_ preoccupied it must be good.”

“Oh, you have no idea…” Claire grins and waggles her eyebrows.

“Yes! Girl talk, my favorite. Tell me everything.”

She laughs and pushes her hair behind one ear. “It’s not nearly as exciting as you’re hoping for.”

“Listen, you can talk, or we can bitch about the new sign-in procedures for the stock rooms. Again.”

“Oh, god. Is there anything new to be said?” They’ve only been complaining about it for a week straight now. “Anything but that.” And honestly, Sho is more likely to understand her dilemma than most people. “Okay. So, Matt and I –”

“I knew it!”

“Knew what? I haven’t said anything yet.”

“The only time you get preoccupied at work like this is when you’ve got that boy of yours on your mind.”

“That’s because no one else gets under my skin the way he does.”

“Ain’t love grand.” Sho holds up her can of diet cola for a toast and Claire taps her bottle of water against it.

“Anyway, it’s finally time for the big sex talk, and –”

“Girl! What do you mean, ‘It’s finally time?’ You’ve been seeing each other since _February._ I have seen that fine ass in a hospital gown; tell me it hasn’t taken you nine months to make a move on that.”

“Okay, first of all, we were –”

“Taking things slow. I know.”

She rolls her eyes and throws a wadded up napkin at her friend. “Did you also know you’re incredibly hard to talk to?”

“Sorry. I get excitable. I’ll try to keep my outbursts to a minimum.”

“Thank you. Secondly, we’ve only been seeing each other since…” Okay, saying mid-March isn’t going to make a huge difference in the general timeline. “That’s not the point. The _point_ is that sex talks get…complicated…when _we_ set out to have one.” She gestures between them to provide the necessary context.

“We, meaning medical professionals.”

“Yeah.” They just know too much, have seen too much, heard too many improbable stories that have landed people in ERs. Safe sex takes on new meanings once the radiologists get involved.

“Well, it’s not like you have to have it all at once.” Sho gasps at the look on her face. “No! You have _not_ been having all those pesky relationship talks that crop up after he’s left the toilet seat up _again_ or you’ve taken up too much of the closet space… You have not been having all those talks preemptively. And at one go.”

“Oh yeah.” She takes a long sip of water.

“Woman, what is wrong with you?”

She laughs, the sound low and slightly weary. “Oh…I ask myself that question a lot, actually.” Her soup is cold; she pushes it away and sighs. “Matt deals best with absolutes. He’s…more comfortable when he’s not worrying about grey areas.”

“Don’t lawyers thrive on grey areas?”

“Lawyers thrive on _other_ people’s belief in grey areas.”

“Good point.”

They’re both quiet for a few minutes, before Sho asks, “So, other than having relationship negotiations every couple of weeks, how _are_ things going with Matt?”

“Good.” Despite her current level of concern over how many rules constitute too many rules, despite still going days at a time without seeing each other when he’s not too injured to be out on the streets, despite her ever-fluctuating work schedule… “Um, _really_ good, actually.” Because despite the _despites_ , they really are. “We’ve reached the point where it’d probably be smart to keep a change of clothes at each other’s apartments.”

“Sounds about right. That’s when I usually raise the subject of testing.”

They spend the rest of Claire’s lunch break exchanging stories about how a little medical knowledge goes a long way towards ruining perfectly innocent attempted seductions. (“What _is_ it about men and wanting to get sugar all up in your personal business?”) It’s good to laugh, to remember that she’s gone through all of this before, maybe to a lesser degree, but she’s done it. She can do it again.

 

+

 

She gets the call as she’s changing into her street clothes for the walk home.

“Hey, you.” She holds the phone between her ear and her shoulder while she finishes buttoning her shirt.

“Hey.” Matt’s voice is warmly affectionate in her ear. Not as deep as it is in person, but still one of the best things she’s heard all day.

“What’s up?”

“Remember how we were talking about dive bars last night?” She can hear Foggy’s voice in the background, urging Matt to get a move on.

“Yeah…” This sounds like the kind of question she might regret answering. “Do I want to know where this is going?”

“To Josie’s, hopefully.”

“Ah, the infamous _Josie’s._ ” She pulls out her coat and her bag, sets them on the bench, closes her locker with the slam necessary to close it properly. “Sorry.”

“Why? Is that a no?”

“Uh, for the locker, actually.”

“So you are coming.”

“See you later, Claire!”

She pulls the phone away from her mouth. “Bye, Therese! Enjoy your weekend!” Putting the phone back, she catches the end of something Matt’s saying to Foggy. “Go out with your friends, Matt.”

“I’m trying to.” His voice is heavy with emphasis. “But one of them’s being difficult.”

Claire grins and twists her upper body back and forth in deliberation. “What’s the occasion?”

“The check for the electric bill didn’t bounce.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. This is kind of a big deal. A few more months like this and financial solvency may be in our grasp.”

“Wow. When did Foggy learn to throw his voice like that?”

“Com’on, Claire.”

“Look, I just don’t want to intrude on an agency milestone,” she says over Karen asking what the hold up is.

“Claire thinks she’d be intruding. Uh…sure. Claire, hold on.”

There’s a fuzzy, rustling sound as the phone moves around, then, “Hey, Claire!” Karen’s voice is bright and excited.

“Hi, Karen. Look, I appreciate the invitation, but –”

“No, no, no, no! No buts. I hang out with these two dorks all day long. Come have a beer with us and even out the numbers.”

Claire sighs and rolls her eyes. Bites her lower lip. “Gimme back to Matt.”

“Are you coming?”

“I’m thinking about it. Let me talk to Matt.”

“See you in a bit!” The phone moves around some more before Matt comes back on the line.

“So, you’re coming?”

“I usually do, when you’re involved.”

Her tone must be less flirtatious and more seductive than she’d intended because his soft “Oh,” sounds a little stunned.

She smiles. “I guess I shouldn’t ask if you’re certain.” He barely asks for the things he needs, much less for the things he doesn’t.

“And, uh, does _that_ mean you’re…joining us?”

“Where exactly is it that I’m going?”

 

+

 

Half of the neon light in the window flashes erratically. The sidewalk outside the door is littered with cigarette butts for ten feet in either direction. Claire hesitates outside for a few seconds before remembering that not only does Matt feel comfortable coming here (because Matt’s risk-assessment skills are sub-par and questionable), but so do Foggy and Karen.

So, dirty and disreputable though the place may seem, she pulls the door open and steps inside.

The place smells the way dive bars usually do: old beer, stale cigarette smoke, cheap colognes and perfumes overlaying but not masking the BO of the patrons. It’s not as strong as she’d been expecting, though, especially as she gets a closer look at all the worn leather and exposed tattoos. And that’s just on the woman behind the bar.

“Hey! What took you so long?” Foggy comes up beside her and slips her bag off her shoulder like he thinks she’s going to bolt. “We were beginning to think we’d been stood up?”

“We? Are you royalty, or…?”

“It’s a small practice, and Karen and I aren’t particular about the company we keep.”

“Thanks. I can see why I hiked the extra six blocks to get here, what with all the sweet-talking.”

Foggy grins. “All part of the package, I assure you. Now, first drink’s on us. What’s your poison?”

Since one drink is all she’s planning to have, she might as well make it count. “Uh…whiskey sour. No egg white. If I want something raw I’ll stop off for sushi on the way home.”

“Coming right up. You’ll find Matt and Karen around the corner by the pool tables.”

After stealing her bag back, Claire heads to the back of the bar, smiling as she rounds the corner and Matt’s face tilts in her direction. He looks tired again, but not weary. An impression that perhaps is helped along by the half smile that quirks his lips. He’s sitting with his back to the wall (surprise), Karen across from him which means her back’s to Claire as she approaches.

“I hear I’m late.” She stops at the end of the table to strip off her jacket and hang it from the back of the unoccupied chair left at Matt’s side.

“You made it!” Karen says with a wide smile, briefly looking away from her phone. “Good, now we can play teams.”

“Teams?” She sits down gratefully, glad to be off her feet for awhile.

“Yeah. We were going to play a few rounds of Trivia Crack.”

“Were?” Matt’s arm drapes across the back of her chair the moment she’s settled. “Oh, I’m sorry, is this seat taken?”

Only a couple of weeks ago she’d wondered what Matt’s stance on PDA might be. He answers the question simply: the kiss is restrained in a way that makes her want to grab his tie and haul him in for something more substantial. Which she doesn’t do, because she’s an adult and possesses a modicum of self-control even if she does briefly sway into him as he pulls away.

“Karen’s fighting with her phone,” he says as he leans back in his chair. (His arm stays put, resting lightly against her shoulder blades.)

“No. No, I’m not. Because that implies a contest between equals, and there’s no way in hell I’m losing a fight to a glorified calculator.”

“What’s wrong?” Since she’s getting a better idea of Matt’s boundaries, Claire scoots her chair over until she’s pressed against his side.

“Oh, the stupid app started to update and then the phone dropped the wifi signal.” Karen stands up, still scowling at her phone. “I’m just going to pop outside for reception real quick.”

Just like that, they’re alone for at least a few seconds, which Claire takes full advantage of. She hooks a finger behind the loose knot of Matt’s tie and leans in to return the light kiss he’d gifted her with. Which quickly turns into a soft volley of softly bestowed kisses until he breaks away to press his face against her hair like he needs to verify her identity with all five senses.

“I missed you.” The softly whispered confession makes her heart race. Coming from Matt it’s practically an undying protestation of love.

“Another rough day?” She pulls away slightly and rubs the back of her fingers against the two-day-old growth of beard along his jaw.

He shakes his head; the arm behind her back curls around until she can feel him tugging and playing with the ends of her hair. “Just long.”

“Headache?”

He shrugs.

_That’s a yes._ “Been taking painkillers like I told you to?”

“What do you think?”

She thinks he’s done exactly what she’s asked him to, because he’s stuck to the letter of their deal since they made it. Or he’s done it in order to get back to his extracurriculars as quickly as possible. (Possibly both. She knows he sometimes feels guilty about how often their schedules don’t match up.)

Instead of answering she leans in for another kiss, this one firmer, less teasing, more… Just more.

“Okay, break it up, lovebirds.” Foggy approaches the table, carrying a tray that holds a pitcher of beer, three glasses, and her whiskey sour.

Claire groans and buries her face in Matt’s shoulder. She’s quickly becoming spoiled; spending most of last night pressed up against the length and heat of him has her practically twitching in withdrawal. (She touches people all day long but it’s all about working and giving and pouring her reserves into other people.) (It’s not the same as the give and take between her and Matt, even when he’s got her pinned against her door in the throws of over stimulation.) Part of her would rather be having a drink at home on the couch, but this is good for Matt. And probably for her, too, honestly.

Okay, okay. She can be an adult. She can sit here, have a drink, play a few rounds of a game with friends, and keep her hands to herself. Easy.

 

+

 

“What color is the billiard ball number 2? Blue, red, black, or yellow?”

So, things aren’t quite as easy as she’d thought they’d be. It’s not just that she has no idea what color the ball in question is – or whether it’s a stripe or a solid, for that matter – but Matt’s an outrageous cheat.

She no more than turns her head towards the pool table when Matt’s fingers – not for the first time – slip under the collar of her shirt and find a tender spot that sends a shiver through her.

“Ah, ah, ah! No cheating,” Foggy chastises her. And says nothing to Matt, whose fingers have moved on and found a knot of tension residing just under the point where her neck meets her back.

She turns wide, blank eyes at Karen. “Uh…not black. That’s all I know.”

“Are you sleeping over there?” Karen demands, her competitive streak in full evidence.

Matt just laughs softly as he drains his glass of all but the foam; his thumb brushes soothingly over muscles aching from giving up their tension.

“Long shift,” she murmurs to cover up her inattention.

“Tick, tock, ladies.” Foggy reaches over and refills Matt’s glass.

“Blue,” Karen says definitively with a toss of her hair.

“You’re guessing!” Foggy sounds like he’s about to work himself into a truly spectacular protest. And seeing how answering this question correctly will win the game and leave both teams tied, he might be.

“It’s multiple choice; the game makers clearly assumed – and possibly even intended – for guessing to be involved.”

“Okay, that’s not fair.” Foggy drains what’s left in the pitcher into his and Karen’s glasses. “You have the entire medical field to fall back on when you talk, and instead you sound like a lawyer. You’re clearly spending too much time with Matt.”

“He’s rubbing off on me.” Claire knocks back the rest of her drink; next to her Matt starts…giggling, helplessly. She rolls her eyes and shrugs his arm off from around her shoulders. “Child,” she murmurs under her breath. Still… “So, blue balls?”

Foggy groans and hands the phone over to Karen who squeals in triumph.

“I knew it!”

“You guessed.”

Karen just smiles and pushes the empty plastic pitcher in Foggy’s direction. “I believe the next round’s on you.”

“Fine, fine. I’m going to need every edge, apparently, for the tiebreaker. Claire? Another?”

“Nooo.” She puts her hand over her empty glass. “I haven’t eaten in hours.”

“There’s a ramen place around the corner,” Matt volunteers. “We can take the game with us. Best three out of five?”

At one-one, three out of five might take awhile, but she’s up for it.

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: author gets lost in her own sense descriptions and then has to preform research, forgetting that there should maybe be a smidge of plot to go along with all the cuddle porn. Bear with, and we'll get somewhere eventually.


End file.
